


Echoes

by scioubeez



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Racism, Canon Universe, Child Soldiers, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Eating Disorders, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Friends to Enemies, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Growing Up, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inferiority Complex, M/M, Military Training, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Recovered Memories, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smoking, Swearing, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, Vomiting, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:13:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 108,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scioubeez/pseuds/scioubeez
Summary: "You've been ruining my life ever since I met you."echo [ ek-oh ] - noun, plural ech·oes.1. a repetition of sound produced by the reflection of sound waves from a wall, mountain, or other obstructing surface.2. a sound heard again near its source after being reflected.verb (used without object), ech·oed, ech·o·ing.3. to emit an echo; resound with an echo:4. to be repeated by or as by an echo:verb (used with object), ech·oed, ech·o·ing.5. to repeat by or as by an echo; emit an echo of:6. to repeat or imitate the words, sentiments, etc., of (a person).
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Reiner Braun/Porco Galliard
Comments: 372
Kudos: 551





	1. 01 - overhead the albatross hangs motionless upon the air

**Author's Note:**

> hi! a few things before you begin:
> 
> \- this is my nanowrimo 2020 entry, the fic is practically finished already so don't worry about it being abandoned  
> \- there's obvious manga spoilers if you're an anime-only, so beware  
> \- we're looking at child soldiers who also face canon racism and will eventually go to war, so other tags will be added, read them carefully whenever a new chapter drops just in case  
> \- all hail pink floyd's echoes  
> \- and that's pretty much it. have fun!

The first time Porco Galliard meets Reiner Braun he’s glaring at him.

His uniform fits, of course it does, because they’re not going to give him another one: the test begins when they give out the uniforms, better accept it without complaining- that’s what Marcel told him the previous evening, and Porco, who might have been a bit too busy mimicking the way Marcel holds himself while eating dinner, nodded with a mouth full of vegetable soup. He almost forgot his piece of advice, but luckily someone in their group complained out loud because their uniform was ‘too big’, and that’s when Porco’s mind flew to Marcel holding his spoon with his left hand rather than the right, and whatever he’d said about the test starting immediately. He’s lucky there’s always someone stupider than him around.

Porco is still glaring at that kid who, sitting opposite him at the table, looks away so quickly he could’ve broken his neck. His cheeks are round, and red, his little body a bulky square of baby fat and large bones, and Porco snickers at how awkward he looks, all blond and pink and red, the white of the uniform trying to help with his complexion. His skin looks weird, not like Marcel or Porco’s. And his nose is funny.

“Stop glaring,” tuts Marcel, who sits beside him, and Porco shrugs. Once he would’ve listened to Marcel’s reprimands, but now he’s older, he’s the exact same age Marcel was last year, and last year’s Marcel was wise and grown-up and the top graded potential candidate. So it only makes sense that Porco is just as wise and responsible, being his brother and all.

Despite having so much fun, Porco does stop glaring. There’s many boys and girls his age, some are older, some younger, and it’s kind of scary. Porco wouldn’t want someone so little embarking on such a dangerous mission: that’s the only reason he didn’t join sooner, because Marcel was worried- and he still isn’t sure about it but their parents agreed, and insisted, especially Dad, so here they are.

Commander Theo Magath is saying something Porco isn’t really able to follow, but he’s sure it’s not because he’s stupid: many other kids are rolling their eyes, chatting in shrill voices, or they simply stay still because they’re afraid of being scolded for not paying attention. Porco knows that only Marcel and the oldest potential candidates are listening.

Candidates. Porco is going to become a warrior candidate. He grins at the thought, because it’s finally happening: just like Marcel, he’s giving their parents a shot at a better life, and two of them means double the possibility. They’re surely going to do it because Marcel is good at everything, and Porco is the second best, he knows. He can settle for third, maybe fourth, but nothing less than that. It’s just like Mum and Dad said, they’re two little geniuses and they’re going to do so many great things once they’re adults.

The Commander, who sounds a lot like the neighbours’ dog when he barks at other dogs, stops talking. Or barking, thinks Porco, wondering if the joke will finally make Marcel laugh: he hasn’t seen him smile all day, and it’s weird, because when he’s home he’s always grinning and laughing at Porco’s jokes. But maybe the Commander wouldn’t find them funny, so it’s better to keep quiet. It’s different from home, here.

They stand to attention as the Commander calls out their names. Porco gets called immediately after Marcel, and he stands up with his back straight and chest puffed up, grinning, occasionally glancing sideways to see if he’s doing it right. After a few more names get called, the short, rectangle-shaped kid stands up as well, his eyes wide as if he were constantly scared of something. Porco suffocates a laugh again, he’s so ridiculous, really. He looks funny and nothing like a future warrior, like the rest of them.

And that’s how he learns Reiner Braun’s name.

They’re going to run around the courtyard, an endurance test to see how much they’re worth right off the bat, explains Marcel shortly after the Commander stops barking like a dog again. Porco shrugs: it’s just running, it can’t be that difficult. He starts slower than he would like to, because he sees almost everyone else doing the same, and they’re the older kids, meaning they’ve done this already so he better follow them. There’s a short girl who speeds past everyone, though, and Porco knows she’ll be out of breath before anyone else, so he keeps an eye on her: though she doesn’t slow down even after five full laps, and the courtyard is very, very big.

Porco catches up with her when she eventually slows down, towards the end of the seventh lap: she tosses her head to the side, trying to get the sweaty hair away from her face, but doesn’t even try to look at Porco, she just stares straight ahead. And then she runs faster, again, and Porco is left behind: he’s almost out of breath, his legs hurt, so he won’t try to catch up again. He knows better.

More and more kids start speeding past Porco: almost all of them are older than him, so Porco doesn’t mind it that much. He’s trying to spot Marcel, maybe he’s in front of everyone, almost surely is, when Porco trips onto something he’s sure wasn’t there before, but as soon as he’s doubling down someone is grabbing his arm and hoisting him up. Porco looks to the side, to see who just saved him from falling face first on the ground: a very, very tall boy, maybe taller than Marcel, completely out of breath, starts to lag behind, though he finds the time to offer Porco a tired, small smile. He’ll need to thank him later.

The Commander calls them right when Porco concludes his ninth lap: whoever can complete ten laps is going to get better starting grades, he says. Of course, everyone tries to do that: many can’t even complete the required number of laps, so there’s very few of them left at the end.

Marcel keeps up for fourteen laps, together with the short girl from before: some of the oldest boys manage to hit thirteen, some twelve, like the taller boy who helped him when he was falling, and Porco settles for eleven, with some bitterness. He knows that if he hadn’t tried to catch up with the short girl he would’ve hit twelve or even thirteen. Not fourteen, maybe next year.

He looks around: he can’t see the rectangle-shaped kid anywhere. He probably never finished the ten assigned laps, so Porco isn’t that surprised.

When he returns at Marcel’s side, he sees he’s chatting with the short girl: she’s not saying much, but Marcel is talking anyway, content with her just listening. Porco looks between the two of them, and even if the height difference is funny they look like the best potential candidates in the whole academy right now.

Porco is tired to think of her as the short girl, so he pipes up when Marcel stops talking, asking her name. She stares for a bit, and Porco starts thinking he’s done something wrong, but then she answers- she’s called Annie, and her voice is soft and short, somehow, just like her. Porco is pleased, and says his own name too, putting major emphasis on his last name because it’s also Marcel’s last name and it’s very important; but maybe Annie doesn’t know about it, because she doesn’t react.

They go back inside to drink and eat something, Porco hopes: he’s disappointed when he finds himself at the end of a long queue for getting to drink water and nothing else.

Porco tags along with Marcel and Annie, who are now silent, but are also staying close anyway, and Porco hopes she won’t steal him away, for some reason. He wants to hold Marcel’s hand just like when they were younger, because he’s in distress, and Marcel has to know so he’ll say the perfect thing to put Porco at ease: he thinks he won’t mind that they’re with other people. It’s something that all brothers do, he knows.

Someone bumps into him from the back as the queue advances: Porco turns around fast, eyes widening in annoyance, and he sees rectangle-kid raising his hands to show he’s not doing anything wrong.

“Ah- sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he stutters, his voice squeaky and shrill like a broken toy, and Porco sighs, eyebrows crawling up his forehead, imagining what Marcel would do in his place.

“No problem, it happens,” he says, cringing at his choice of words, because it doesn’t sound natural at all. Rectangle-kid seems to notice, because he’s giving him a weird look, and he doesn’t seem to be worried anymore.

“But you’re annoyed,” he points out, his eyes still wide, and irritating, as he keeps staring at Porco. He’s waiting for an answer, and Porco can hear Marcel and Annie talking to each other again as the queue advances at a snail’s pace.

He almost, almost shoves rectangle-kid away from him. “Yeah, I’m annoyed,” he snarls, thinking of the Commander’s harsh, grownup voice, the Commander who sounds like a dog, because dogs can be scary, and Porco wants to be scary too, now. Rectangle-kid is sorry again, not scared, though, and Porco turns away from him, even more irritated than before.

“Sorry,” mumbles rectangle-kid, behind him. His voice is quieter, it almost sounds like he’s about to cry, but Porco doesn’t care. It’s his own fault if he’s bumped into him, and it distracted him from Marcel, who now talks with Annie and other people instead of Porco.

Porco will last fourteen laps even before turning eight years old, he knows. He’ll be even better one day, and then he’ll be able to talk to other people without feeling awkward, too.

When they get home in the evening, the sun is low in the sky, and everything is bathed in orange.

Porco hasn’t talked much: he was in a talkative mood after drinking his glass of water, but then the Commander decided that they’d have to run again, though this time the competition was about speed, and so many children were tired to the point of being called snails and ‘lazy shitty Eldian arses’, something that made Porco chuckle, but he covered his mouth quickly when he noticed Marcel’s glare; he thought his time was good, even if he didn’t know anything about bad times or good times, but he wasn’t called lazy so it was enough, he thinks. It could’ve gone worse.

Now he’s not talking, and Marcel isn’t showing signs of concern about him: they’re both so tired the walk home took a lot longer than usual, and as soon as Mum and Dad see them they start fretting about washing up and changing into cleaner, comfortable clothes. They don’t even ask about Porco’s first day, they just worry about them having something to eat after they come out of the bathroom.

Dad helps them clean up: Porco’s arms and legs hurt all over, so he’s grateful. His eyes start watering when Dad dries his hair with a fresh towel, he doesn’t know why, but the feeling doesn’t go away even when he puts on his favourite pajamas and walks into the kitchen for dinner, even though it’s very late and normally at this hour he would be asleep already.

“Where’s Marcel,” mumbles Porco between mouthfuls of soup, as Mum sits opposite him and watches with a worried look on her face that makes her look older. Mum sighs, runs a hand through her hair and pushes it all back, something that Porco does too when he’s nervous, and tells him that he’s gone upstairs to sleep because he’s not hungry.

Porco purses his lips. “But he needs to eat or he’ll be slower tomorrow. He can’t be slow.”

Dad sits in the chair right beside him, taking Marcel’s usual spot. He reassures Porco that Marcel will wake up earlier tomorrow to eat a bigger breakfast, he’s just so tired now that he can’t even stand up.

“But Marcel is bigger than me. And stronger. He can’t be more tired than me.”

This time, Mum and Dad don’t say anything. They watch him eat in silence, as Porco thinks back on Marcel’s weird behaviour, wondering if next year he’ll be tired faster, too.

His legs still hurt, the morning after: he doesn’t mind though, because he woke up earlier to eat an even bigger breakfast than Marcel. If he can show him that he’s faster and stronger and taking this seriously, then surely he’ll laugh at his jokes and speak to him whenever Porco wants him to! It only makes sense. That’s what he did wrong yesterday, but now he knows and he’s going to fix it.

Porco steps in the kitchen and is surprised to see Marcel eating already, because their parents are both still asleep and there’s no way he’s prepared everything by himself.

“You can cook?” mumbles Porco, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Marcel freezes and his head snaps to the side, so he can look at him, and snorts, a few bits of bread flying out of his mouth.

“What are you doing? You should get some more sleep,” he scolds him, though he’s smiling, and talkin with his mouth full, even: something that Dad would never forgive. Porco stifles a laugh. “And no. Bread takes so much time to cook, this one was already cooked the other day.”

“How long does it take?” yawns Porco, sitting beside him in his usual chair, stealing a piece of Marcel’s bread. “And how do they do it?”

“It grows underground like carrots and potatoes. When it sprouts you pull it out and wash it, and then you eat it.”

Porco glares. “No, it doesn’t work like that. You have to cook it first, you just said that. Liar.”

Taking back his piece of bread from Porco’s hands, Marcel laughs again, softly. “Yes, I’m a big bad liar. Now go wash your face, I’ll save you something to eat. Go on.”

Doing as he’s told, Porco hops to the bathroom, making sure not to wake his parents. It’s weird to wash his face when it’s still dark outside: the sun still hasn’t come out, but he’s so impatient today, he can’t wait to show all the other kids how strong he still is the day after such a hard training, all thanks to the big breakfast that Marcel prepared for him.

When Porco is ready he goes back to the kitchen, though Marcel has already left: his shoes are missing, and there’s a whole loaf of bread left on the table, together with a couple of pears and a small slice of cheese. There’s also Marcel’s leftover bread- maybe he wasn’t hungry anymore? Also, his glass is full of water, and it wasn’t even on the table before.

He eats happily, hoping all this food won’t slow him down too much.

Today is just like the first day, except there’s half the children Porco saw yesterday.

Marcel observes that maybe they realised it was too much for them, and dropped out: it’s not easy at their age, it’s a commitment, he says, and even though Porco doesn’t know what a commitment is he agrees. Annie is still sitting with them during lunch, not talking, just being kind of there, and Porco isn’t as irritated as he thought he would be. She smirks sometimes when he speaks up, offering his own opinion on everything, and he doesn’t know if she agrees or thinks he’s stupid. He should ask Marcel later, he understands these things better than him.

Porco is working his way through the slice of stale bread he was given, when someone almost drops his bowl of vegetable soup on the table near him: he looks up and sees the tall boy from the day before, his face startled, as he holds the bowl and exhales, glad it didn’t spill all over the table.

“Careful with that,” mumbles Annie, and the boy laughs, sitting down on the bench beside Porco.

“Sorry, I was… oh! Do you mind if I sit here?”

He’s getting up already even before Porco can answer, but Marcel is faster than him, and he says yes, he can sit with them, no problem at all. The tall boy smiles, sitting back down and holding his bowl tight as if his hands were cold and he just wanted to warm them up rather than eat his food.

“I’m Bertolt Hoover. Hello,” he introduces himself. Porco grins, deciding to show him his gratitude, and introduces himself as well as Marcel, and Annie, though he says, “I don’t know her last name though.”

“Leonhardt,” she offers, almost under her breath, and Marcel whistles.

“That’s a beautiful last name.”

Annie’s eyes widen. “Thanks,” she says, clearing her throat. Porco concentrates on the quiet noises that Bertolt makes beside him as he sips, trying to be less noisy as possible. He prefers it. Marcel might have left him more bread that morning, but now he isn’t talking to him, again, and he’s asking Annie questions about her father, and Porco huffs, looking around the room as all the other children eat - or try to, the slowest ones would get the leftovers of the day before, and there’s not much you can do when all you get is a bruised apple or moldy bread.

He can’t see rectangle-kid anywhere. Maybe he dropped out like all the others.

Porco is more tired than yesterday, and in a bad mood, too: he mumbles instead of answering Mum and Dad, and doesn’t care if they scold him- they do, and he tries to look indifferent even when Dad starts shouting. Maybe Marcel will start talking to him again when they’re with others, too, if he behaves like Annie. It’s not fair that he ignores him during lunch or whenever they can talk to each other.

He has trouble sleeping, that night: he tosses and turns, waking up every few hours, and feels relieved when eventually he makes out Marcel’s form in the dark, as he gets up and stretches his arms and legs. It’s almost time to go.

Marcel eats more than him, because Porco isn’t that hungry, today. He’s one of the slowest kids during the agility test, and is rewarded with leftovers for lunch- maybe it’s the same piece of old bread he struggled to eat yesterday. There’s bite marks on one side of it.

He isn’t sitting with Marcel, because he dislikes him when they’re not home and when he’s so different, so he sits by himself. He can see Marcel on the other side of the room, standing up and looking around in every direction: Annie and Bertolt are sitting with him, but don’t appear to be talking. Serves him well.

A red, untouched apple rolls on the table: its rhythmic thumping echoes in Porco’s ears, until it stops against his elbow. He glares at it, then looks back up, and sees rectangle-kid sitting opposite him, just like on their first day.

“I don’t want that, you can eat it,” he offers, in his shrill voice that Porco had almost forgotten.

“I don’t like apples,” grumbles Porco. Rectangle-kid’s face is wide and his cheeks are so red that just looking at him is irritating, he doesn’t know why. “You can eat it yourself.”

Rectangle-kid shrugs. “I’m not hungry. I just took it.”

“For me?” asks Porco, and he can’t believe him. He couldn’t have known he would be so slow today, and besides, why does he care?

“No… I wanted to bring something home for my Mum. But I thought, I can’t keep it all afternoon, and I saw you only got some old bread, so I gave it to you.”

Porco’s cheeks feel warm all of a sudden. “Oh. Um. Thank you.”

Rectangle-kid nods, a crooked little smile on his face, and just sits there, looking at the apple expectantly. Porco clears his throat: he never even thought about bringing something back for Mum or Dad, but they’ve got a lot of food at home already, and it’s even better than what they eat here. Maybe rectangle-kid’s mum can’t cook as good as Porco’s Mum.

“Why did you want to give it to her?” he asks, before touching the apple, just in case he changes his mind.

“Today is her birthday,” he explains, shifting on the bench to one side then the other, as if he were dancing on the spot for no reason, “and I wanted to surprise her. But it doesn’t matter.”

“You can’t say that. Now I don’t want to eat it, I feel bad,” sighs Porco, tossing the apple to him. Rectangle-kid giggles, sending it rolling back to Porco.

“Eat it! She doesn’t have to run all day like we do. I can get her another present.”

“Alright. Thank you… um.”

“Reiner Braun,” he introduces himself, still shifting on the bench. Maybe he has to go to the bathroom?

This kid- Reiner, he makes him laugh. Porco is sure Marcel wouldn’t like to talk to him, he doesn’t have that grownup look that Annie and Bertolt have, so he’s safe: he won’t steal him away from Porco. He can eat the apple.

“Porco Galliard.”

Reiner still smiles but looks away, somewhere far behind Porco as he bites into the apple, not minding at all that it’s not a pear, even if he likes pears a lot more.


	2. 02 - and deep beneath the rolling waves in labyrinths of coral caves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so these two chapters should've been chapter one, but I had to split it because of Reasons so you get two updates in a week!! how nice of me  
> next update will probably be towards the end of the week, but who knows
> 
> enjoy!!

A few days pass, Porco is not sure how many; one morning he notices there are only thirty or so kids left.

The Commander barks less, now. Sometimes he is more kind than usual, and he doesn’t shout when he scolds someone for being slow or crying or wanting to go home: Bertolt swears that once he saw him pass a leftover chunk of fresh bread to a crying child he just scolded that morning. Marcel doesn’t believe him, Annie hums and no one understands if she finds it funny or stupid, and Porco doesn’t care.

He feels different when he wakes up. He slips out of bed, gets ready, eats a small breakfast, runs all day, comes home, washes up and eats and goes to sleep, and it never changes, the uniform is looser and his armband keeps slipping down past the elbow. Mum gifts him a tighter one, and when he tries it on and sees it fits better he hangs his head, ears and cheeks red for reasons he doesn’t understand.

He gets it now, why Marcel doesn’t want to talk to him at the academy, why he won’t laugh at Porco’s silly jokes anymore: he’s older, he knows better, and he looks at the adults all the time, trying to talk like them. It’s exactly what Porco is doing too, lately- maybe this means they’re growing up, even if it feels like it’s happening too soon.

Sometimes he sits with Reiner during lunch. They don’t talk a lot, just eating in silence, but they’re each other’s favourite familiar face and, when Porco is too irritated at Marcel for not spending time with him, he always finds a free spot opposite or beside Reiner: he sees his armband hanging low just above his elbow, once, and points it out with fake disinterest.

“Oh, I know. Mum says it’s because I’m losing weight,” he answers, wiping his mouth with the back of his stubby little hand.

Porco draws his eyebrows together. “But if you lose weight it’s your belly that gets smaller, not your arms.”

“No, no, your arms can be fat too. It’s not just the belly.”

Clearing his throat, Porco averts his eyes and retorts, “how do you know that if it only happened to you?”

Reiner risks a glance at Porco’s armband. “You changed yours, because your arms are smaller now… right?”

It’s obvious, Reiner didn’t mean it, but Porco allows himself to get irritated anyway, because he got stale bread for lunch once again and his hair is getting longer, and it makes him mad because he doesn’t have time to ask Mum to cut it, even if it’s always touching his neck when it’s sweaty after a running session- that’s why he’s always coughing during the night, and it keeps Marcel awake, and he can’t do it anymore. “What do you care, look at yourself,” he growls, standing up and walking away from Reiner, who stutters something that Porco doesn’t want to hear.

He gets mad at Marcel, too: they’re always having arguments now, bickering on who gets to use the bathroom first or who ate the other’s pear without asking. Mum and Dad always take Marcel’s side, because he’s older, he knows better, and Porco is mad at them, too. He’s mad at everyone, maybe the Commander is mad at everyone as well, and that’s why he barks like a dog. It only makes sense.

Porco brings an apple to Reiner for lunch, the next day.

Mum cut his hair last night, so he’s a bit less irritated. He doesn’t like to say sorry too often, so he hopes the apple is good enough for Reiner: but he just looks up at him, his lips pursed, as he pushes the apple back towards Porco without saying anything.

“You don’t want it?” asks Porco, feeling weird, as if his arms became too long all of a sudden and he had trouble moving them around. Reiner is still glaring at him, and he looks ridiculous, all round and blond with his pink chubby cheeks.

“You’re mad at me. I’m supposed to give you the apple,” he explains, forcing his voice lower than normal, and Porco hides his amusement. He’s going to speak like that for his whole life, he knows: he’s always going to be short and round and talk in a squeaky voice, and Porco will laugh at him- or rather, with him.

“Take it. So you can give it back to me,” he explains, practical, shoving the apple back between Reiner’s hands.

“Okay. I’m sorry Porco, so take this apple,” he recites, grabbing the apple and planting it on the table, as Porco laughs. “There, done. Happy?”

And Porco, surprisingly, feels just like that: happy. He didn’t ruin anything.

They’re going to laugh together a lot when they grow up, he knows.

“You made a friend!”

Marcel is annoying, and Porco hates that he thinks that. He huffs, shoving the sheets down so he can get into bed, refusing to look at his brother, especially now that he starts laughing at him. “After three months, you made a friend!”

“Sorry if I’m not popular like you,” he mumbles, and Marcel’s laughter dies down fast. Porco can feel him staring as he tugs the sheets back up until they cover his nose.

“Are you okay, Porco?” he asks, his voice lower, and Porco has to turn around to hide his frown better, also because his eyes are starting to fill with tears. “I didn’t want to make you cry… I’m just happy you started to talk with someone els-”

“I’m not crying,” interrupts Porco, gritting his teeth, “and I don’t care if you’ve got more friends than me,” he adds, whistling pathetically because of a missing tooth. Marcel doesn’t laugh at him for that, not now, and Porco is glad because he doesn’t want to cry before sleeping, or he’s going to wake up with his face and eyes all red and puffy.

“You’re not crying,” repeats Marcel, “but you’re looking at the wall instead of me. You do that when you’re angry.”

“Yes,” answers Porco, squeezing his eyes shut, but a tear falls down towards the pillow anyway. He rubs at his nose with the back of his hand, wiping it on the sheets without caring. “I want to sleep now.”

Marcel’s voice is tiny when he wishes him goodnight, and Porco frowns at himself, his lips still trembling.

The rifle is heavy in Porco’s arms, so he sets it down on the table. There’s no way he can hold it like Commander Magath does.

He’s explaining how to hold it properly, how to reload it, the basics of slowing down the heartbeat when taking aim, all things that Porco is not interested in. They’re not going to use rifles anyway, not when they can become Titans, so why bother? He makes a point of rolling his eyes at the countless explanations the Commander is giving out today: he’d rather run around the courtyard.

The Commander talks about rifles the whole morning and there’s no running sessions planned for the rest of the morning, so during lunchtime everyone is calmer, there’s less rush in taking the food, and more time to rest. Porco’s backside hurts constantly when he sits, and it feels harder to the touch for some reason. Maybe he’s eating too much.

“You can sit with us today if you want,” pipes up Marcel, turning around towards Porco as they wait in the queue. “You and your friend, I mean.”

Porco grimaces, as if he just ate something bitter. “I don’t know if he wants to. I’m going to ask.”

Secretly, Porco hopes that Reiner doesn’t want to sit with them: he can’t explain it to himself, but he’s afraid of what could happen. Annie is definitely going to glare at him, because Reiner looks funny, and Bertolt is going to stay silent all the time and make him feel unwanted, and Marcel of course will start embarrassing Porco one way or another. No, he can’t allow that to happen.

Of course, Reiner says yes. He stands up abruptly, almost knocking his bowl over- he was so absorbed in the Commander’s explanations that he even asked a question, and was rewarded with being one of the first kids to get out of the class: so he was able to get the best food available, a full bowl of steaming vegetable soup, and Porco finds himself staring at it more than once, his stomach complaining after the small breakfast he had earlier that morning.

They make their way to Marcel’s table, where Bertolt is saving two spots for them. Reiner greets everyone as he sits beside him, and his face turns red immediately when everyone greets him back. Porco is sitting next to Marcel, so that he’s the furthest away from Reiner, and he feels uneasy: he’s not used to sitting with them anymore, and he suspects Marcel did it on purpose, that he wanted to separate him from Reiner to put him to the test for some reason.

Marcel is asking all the questions: where Reiner lives, why he enlisted, why does he want to become a warrior, what he’s good at- Reiner answers in a hushed voice, starts out talking about his mum and how he wants to be chosen for the program to make her happy, so that they’ll live a better life; and that he’s good at nothing in particular, but he’s willing to learn. His soup is cold by the time he’s finished answering all of Marcel’s questions, Porco knows it because the bowl isn’t steaming anymore and Reiner can’t hide the grimace as he gulps it down anyway.

Maybe he did that on purpose, too, because he’s so jealous of Porco’s new friend. That wouldn’t surprise him: he’s always got to be the best at everything, after all.

They get into yet another argument when they’re home: as always, Mum and Dad both take Marcel’s side, because he’s the older one, it’s only obvious that he gets to use the bathroom first.

“I’m going to get sick again if I wait here all sweaty!” complains Porco, remembering all too well last week’s coughing fits that wouldn’t let him sleep in peace. With the changing of the season and the temperature getting lower by the day, he’s going to fall ill one day or the other: Mum sighs, but still accompanies Marcel to the bathroom, and Porco crosses his arms, flopping down on the ground with all the intention of causing trouble.

Dad sighs as well, mirroring Mum- lately it’s all he’s been able to do, imitating her in whatever she does and says, as if he could avoid shouting and beating them only by doing that. Porco never talked much with Dad before joining the warrior program, but now he’s constantly asking him how did it go?, was it tiring?, how high he ranked… things he used to ask only to Marcel. And when he isn’t asking those things, he’s taking his frustrations out on him.

Porco looks up to the ceiling, his eyes wet. He’s tired of being sad for things he doesn’t even understand clearly.

“He’ll be fast, Porco. You won’t get sick for waiting a few minutes. Come sit on the chair now,” says then Dad, as expected, his voice clipped, annoyed. Porco clicks his tongue, refusing to look at him, or the tears will start falling and he’s not in the mood to explain anything to anyone.

He waits down on the ground until Dad grabs him by the arm and pulls him up with force, so much that he comes stumbling forward. He sits up from the chair gritting his teeth as Marcel and Mum come out of the bathroom, and doesn’t even spare them a glance before stomping in and slamming the door shut.

“How’s your mum like?”

Reiner looks up from his plate, eyes wide. “Huh?”

Porco snorts, as Bertolt repeats the question patiently. “I asked how your mum’s like. You’re doing this for her, so she loves you a lot. She seems like a good mother.”

They’re sitting all together for lunch, just like everyday: it’s become a habit, quietly, without anyone saying anything. Marcel and Annie are always first, then Porco and Bertolt join in, and finally Reiner completes the group, sitting furthest away from everyone, beside Bertolt. Porco feels a bit sad about that, because he can’t talk to him as much as he used to, and Reiner is his favourite new friend: he hopes he’s sad about that too.

“Yes,” mumbles Reiner, “and I love her too. She gave me everything and I have to give it back.”

Surprisingly enough, Annie speaks up, her quiet voice mirroring Reiner’s. “If she told you to jump into the sea would you do it?”

Despite himself, Porco snorts again, even if everyone else at the table is completely silent: Reiner’s thin eyebrows are drawn together, like he doesn’t understand the question. “She’s not going to ask me something like that.”

Annie doesn’t waste a second. “But she asked you to join the program.”

Bertolt and Marcel are exchanging glances, and Porco is staring at Reiner, who is now starting to get impossibly red in the face. “She… she didn’t ask me. I wanted to do it.”

“Why?”

“Give him a break, Annie,” laughs Marcel, but he doesn’t fool Porco: he acts like he’s having fun, but Annie’s words are getting under his skin- under everyone’s skin, it’s clear.

Reiner swallows, visibly nervous. He hesitates a bit, almost answers then stops himself, as if he couldn’t tell the truth: then, a girl Porco has never seen before interrupts them, plopping down in the seat next to Reiner with a sigh.

“Can I sit here? You’re the only ones talking and I want to have a chat,” she says, an easy smile on her face. She’s much taller than the others, almost like Bertolt, and her hair is dark just like his. They look very similar, speaking with calm, relaxing voices. “I’m Pieck, by the way.”

“Pieck what,” answers Porco, resting his chin on both hands. He can’t help but notice how Reiner is shrinking into himself, right next to her- to Pieck, and how Annie let their discussion go with a raise of her visible eyebrow.

“No, ‘what’ is not my last name. But I need to know all of yours, since we’re going to be part of the same group.”

She knows a lot of words: Porco immediately takes a liking to her.

“Group?” asks Marcel, staring at Pieck with wide eyes, like he can’t believe what she just said. “So we passed?”

Pieck shrugs. “I don’t know that yet. But it’s good that you’ve made it this far.”

Later, Marcel explains to Porco that the first test is almost over, starting from the moment they receive their uniforms up until the first week of classes. They’re being observed every single moment they’re here, even at lunch, and Porco wonders if they could have left him out of the group for not sitting with Marcel and the others.

“So they put all of us together because we know each other?” he asks, as they walk around the corner, back to their house.

“Maybe. I don’t know why they’re keeping Reiner, so that could be the reason.”

Porco doesn’t like Marcel’s new way of talking. He’s using more and more difficult words everyday, and they all sound wrong in his voice and on his face. “What’s the problem with him?”

“Well… he’s not very good. At, like, anything.”

“He’s learning,” spits Porco as he opens the door to get in, not liking where Marcel is going with this: it feels like he’s talking about someone else, like Reiner is just an excuse, like he’s talking about Porco, who is not good enough, who is almost always between the last ones to make it to lunch, who never asks questions during class and can’t follow the Commander’s words for too long without getting distracted. “We’re all going to learn everything, we just aren’t ready now.”

“Yes, but some are more talented than others,” objects Marcel, closing the door behind him. Their small argument is interrupted by Mum and Dad who, of course, start asking countless questions about their day, their ranking, whatever it is they’ve done in class, and Marcel is the only one who answers: Porco washes his hands quietly, and sits down for dinner, leaving the bathroom free for their beloved Marcel if he needs it.

The next morning, they walk to the gate in silence.

Porco spots them out of the corner of his eye: two kids, running and kicking an old, worn ball, throwing it to each other and laughing. No one calls after them for being so loud this early in the morning, they’re far enough from the gate anyway so the guards won’t scold them, and the adults are not going to mind. They’re all up already, making breakfast for their children or helping the elderly or getting ready for work.

They used to play outside in the early morning, too, before Marcel joined the warrior program. Then, Porco was alone, playing by himself, all the other children interested in Marcel’s company more than anything. He wasn’t enough already, even to their old friends: he wasn’t worth waking up earlier to play ball undisturbed in the middle of the road. Maybe he’s too grown up to do that, now… even if those kids appear to be the same age as him. It makes sense in Porco’s mind.

Now they won’t get to do that anymore. They can’t go out and play with the others, with those who never joined or the kids who gave up after the first days of running in the courtyard: Porco and Marcel, and Reiner, and Annie, and Bertolt, they’re all different and they will always be.

Porco throws a glance at Marcel’s hand as he walks. He could grab it, like he did when he was scared, but he’s almost a warrior candidate now. He can’t be scared, not anymore: he’s not going to grab anyone’s hand, especially Marcel’s.

The sadness quickly becomes stomach-ache as Porco shows his permit to the guards, just like Marcel does, and they walk out of the gate. It lingers all through the morning classes, and he can’t even stomach a full lunch.

Porco cries himself to sleep that night, and he does it quietly, so that Marcel won’t notice.

He doesn’t even know why he’s so sad.

Pieck always looks like she wants to sleep.

“So we’re going do some things together: classes, the daily run, that kind of stuff. You just listen to me and Commander Magath and things will be fine,” she explains, and they all nod, except Porco, who stands there with his arms crossed over his belly and a grimace on his face. He can’t help it, he still feels nauseous and sad, and he hopes no one will ask him what happened.

“Are you the leader of our group then?” inquiries Annie, calm and collected. Pieck smiles at her, but doesn’t get another smile in return: she doesn’t look like she minds, though.

“No, I’m not cut out for that. You’ll meet your group leader today after lunch, he’s going to be watching us so give it your all.”

Reiner swallows heavily, so much that Porco hears it. He shifts his weight from one side to the other, and bumps into Porco’s elbow as he murmurs, “I’m going to get kicked out.”

“No you’re not,” sighs Porco, hoping that some talking will relieve him. Reiner groans, holding his belly just like Porco is doing, then adds, “you’re scared too, right? We’re going to get graded again, every single day until we get our Titans. We’re getting graded for months. Maybe years.”

A beat of silence. Then, Reiner adds, lowering his voice even more, “I’m not ready for this.”

Porco wishes, oh, he wishes so much, that he could say the same out loud, but he’s never going to. So, he’s still nauseous.

Zeke Jaeger is taller than all of them, even Pieck: he’s also much older than them, he didn’t say anything about his age but Porco thinks he’s somewhere between fourteen or seventeen years old. His voice cracks a lot when he speaks, and it’s funny, but also sad, because if he’s still a potential candidate at his age it means he’s never been chosen; Porco hopes with everything he’s got that he won’t have to wait that long to get his Titan.

Also, Zeke is what Marcel would call an arse. He says whatever crosses his mind, and is not afraid of what other people think: Porco doesn’t think of him as an arse, though, because he likes his honesty.

“Pieck, did you get taller?” he asks one day, as he walks between their tables, all of them with their heads down as they take apart the rifle to get it back together again as fast as they can.

“I don’t think I have, Zeke. It’s because we’re surrounded by children,” she answers immediately, never taking her eyes away from Annie’s rifle as she goes through the motions with no hesitation. Zeke is standing right in front of Porco’s table as he laughs, his voice cracking like it almost always does.

“Yes, the most talented ones this year,” he adds, and Porco pouts as he notices Zeke scoffing at the end of that sentence. Aren’t they the best ones? Okay, maybe not Reiner… he’s dropped the barrel twice in five minutes. And he sucks at everything that isn’t history classes.

Porco glances at him as he puts down the rifle, giving himself a few seconds before starting again: Reiner is taking the barrel from Zeke’s hands, after he bowed down to get it for him. His eyes are wet and puffy, like they’ve been all morning. He seems to be crying all the time, ever since they were assigned to Zeke.

“Hey, there’s a lot of people missing.”

Porco looks up from his bowl at Bertolt’s words: he’s right, there are only five or six groups of children at lunch. There were lots more just yesterday.

“Dropping like flies,” declares Marcel, his mouth full of bread. He keeps chewing, looking around the room as if searching for someone. Reiner, who is sitting beside Porco today, squirms in his seat and toys with a slice of his apple. He hasn’t touched any of his food yet.

“They’re so quick with the selection… I wonder if something will change for us?” wonders Bertolt, and he turns his head back to face Annie, who is sitting opposite him. “Annie, I wanted to ask… can you show me that move you used today? I’d like to learn.”

Earlier that morning, they went through a short hand-to-hand combat session in which Annie managed to KO everyone- even Zeke. Commander Magath closed his mouth only after Annie cleared her throat, staring back at him and waiting for her grades.

“I’m not teaching that to anyone,” she answers, but corrects herself at Bertolt’s frown, adding a small “sorry” to be more polite.

Lately, Porco is starting to like Marcel again. He talks with him, too, when they’re at the academy: at first he used to think it was only because they’re in the same group, and kind of forced to do that, but they don’t have any arguments at home now. Marcel is also kind just like when they were little, he helps him whenever he can, always saves him a second slice of bread for lunch and gives him useful tips for loading the rifle faster or to keep a better posture during their daily run in the courtyard.

He doesn’t know what happened, but he suspects Porco making it into the group had something to do with it: it’s proof that Porco is talented too, that he can reach Marcel’s level and even surpass him, that they can both get a Titan and make sure Mum and Dad live the best life they can afford. That must be it: he’s finally made an impression on his older brother.

It’s not like he was mad at him, but…

“Did you know? There’s a rank order in our group. Commander Magath updates it every single day,” says Marcel one evening as they walk back home. Porco purses his lips: Marcel never talks to him about these things when they’re out, it’s an unspoken rule, to think about the academy only when they’re there.

“So? Who’s first?” asks Porco, more for politeness than interest. If he’s not ranking first he doesn’t want to know.

“It keeps changing between Zeke and me,” he reveals, a hint of smugness in his voice, and Porco can only roll his eyes at that. “I can hold my own against a teenager.”

“Well, Zeke sucks. He’s so old and he’s still here,” retorts Porco, and Marcel laughs at his words, shoving him lightly.

“Don’t talk like that! He’s our group leader, you must respect him.”

“Let me guess,” pipes up Porco then, changing subject, “I’m last, right? With Reiner. We both suck. I mean, I don’t suck, but I’m not good at everything like you all are.”

Marcel isn’t laughing anymore, now, he doesn’t even smile. Maybe Porco is right? He’s not sure he wants to know, but… “I can just do stuff that comes out okay,” he adds, risking another glance at his brother: Marcel still isn’t smiling or anything else.

“It’s more than okay, Porco,” he murmurs, “and… I don’t know who’s last. But please don’t say those things again.”

“About me?”

“About Reiner,” sighs Marcel, and Porco is genuinely confused now. “He doesn’t suck, just like you don’t suck. No one sucks if we’re all here and they put rifles in our hands. We’re going to start shooting next week, and we’ll get double classes, and new instructors… we’re almost there.”

Porco stays silent, now: Marcel rarely talks like that, like the teenager he’s becoming, the adult he will be one day. He’s serious, and he thinks about many different things all at once, something Porco can’t do yet… and he’s kind, even with Reiner, who is after all the weakest in their group, but apparently it’s not something you can say to Marcel’s face.

He’s become so protective of Reiner that Porco finds himself a bit jealous. Reiner is his friend after all, he always tells Porco everything, when he’s sad or happy or scared. What does Marcel want? They don’t even talk that much. Not like he and Porco do, never like that.

“Okay,” he concedes then, finding a frown on his own face that mirrors Marcel’s.


	3. 03 - the echo of a distant time comes willowing across the sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're finally starting to see canon manga scenes from this chapter onwards! yay! some canon dialogues will be reworked to give them a more natural feel though  
> early update because i'm an impatient creature. next one is definitely coming before sunday, too, so stay tuned

Shooting is hard, learns Porco.

Not for Bertolt, though: he almost never misses, and Commander Magath always praises him. It happens every single day, Bertolt hits the target right in the middle, misses maybe once or twice every twenty-or-so bullets, then the Commander roars something about talent and mindset and being gifted and other difficult words that confuse Porco, and everyone else groans because nothing is more irritating than hearing an adult praise a child that is not you, Porco knows this very well.

He can see Annie getting competitive, focusing harder on her breathing and her posture: she shoots well, too, and Commander Magath compliments her, as well as Marcel. Zeke and Pieck aren’t sharing any practical sessions with them, so Porco and Reiner are the only ones left in their group, loading their last bullets to see who can get the next words of praise.

Porco nails the target once; Reiner can’t make it, and he curses under his breath after putting down the rifle. Porco doesn’t have time to feel bad for Reiner, because he’s getting ready to hear whatever compliment Commander Magath will give him-

“Lesson’s over! Grab your rifles and go clean them properly,” he barks, turning around and leading the small group away from the shooting range.

It’s only Reiner’s constant sniffling that brings Porco back to reality. He grabs his rifle carelessly, and they speed up to reach the others. 

He’s not sure what happened, but time stopped for a few seconds. And everything he heard was different, like it was far, his cheeks on fire, heart beating faster than he’d like to.

He doesn’t really know what it was, but it was… scary.

“I can’t do anything right,” sobs Reiner, crying openly as they catch up with the rest of the group. He hasn’t been himself for weeks, always frowning or wiping the tears away from his face: and it’s not like anyone is going to ask him what’s wrong.

Except Zeke: he makes sure to threaten him that he will report his behaviour to Commander Magath if he sees him crying.

“You can ask Bertolt for some tips,” offers Porco, his voice neutral, weird, and he’s never heard himself like that. It’s so scary, again, he feels like he’s being chased by someone and is afraid to turn back.

“I’m going to get left behind,” he keeps going, and Porco feels his own heartbeat starting to speed up at Reiner’s words, “if I don’t get better soon I’m going to be kicked out and disappoint Mum. I can’t do this to her.”

Reiner’s weakness is irritating, so much that Porco grits his teeth together before giving him a piece of his mind. “Then just work harder,” he spits, a bitter taste in his mouth that surprises him.

“I’m trying, I swear, but it’s hard… we’re just children-”

“So what?” interrupts Porco, and to his surprise there are tears in his eyes, but he doesn’t really care: Reiner is the only one who can see him crying, even when he annoys him. He doesn’t mind that. “It’s the only chance we’ve got, we can’t miss it even if we’re little kids. And that’s not an excuse.”

Reiner is still sobbing as he asks Porco, his shrill little voice breaking, “so I’m wrong?”

He wants to tell Reiner that he’s right, that it does matter that they’re just children, they could be getting up early in the morning to sneak out and play in the empty streets when no one is looking; they could be laughing together right now, playing and having fun and talk about all sorts of silly things. They could visit each other’s houses before curfew, eat their parents’ cooking at lunch too and not only at dinner, they could have never touched a rifle in their life, or kicked another kid in the shins for getting higher grades…

But they’re going to be warriors, for their parents’s sake.

“Yeah, you’re wrong.”

He only notices it after a few days have passed, but Reiner’s started to hide his tears from him: he makes sure to rub his eyes thoroughly before they talk, and turns the other way when his bottom lip starts trembling. Like he’s ashamed of it, like he’s afraid of Porco shouting at him just like that day after their shooting lesson.

Porco’s stomach doesn’t stop aching for hours after having noticed that, and it’s so confusing he isn’t going to think about that anymore. It’s distracting.

“So,” starts Pieck colloquially, her soft voice catching Porco’s attention immediately, “let’s say you’re in charge of ranking us. Who gets the Titans?”

They’re resting under the lone tree in the middle of the courtyard, sweat drying on their skin: spending their five minutes of break as far away as possible from Commander Magath is the best choice, and Porco is glad he followed Pieck’s lead weeks ago when she first told him. It’s rare to have actual conversations without someone listening in.

“Hm,” he stops for a second, pursing his lips out of habit, and thinking hard. It’s not easy. “Zeke of course gets one, he’s the oldest and he’s got top grades in everything. Then Marcel. And… Bertolt and Annie I guess. And you, and me.”

“In that order?”

Porco glares at Pieck, but her gentle smile is still in place. “Yeah. Bertolt and Annie are at the same level, though.”

“So they each get one half of the same Titan?”

“No,” laughs Porco. It’s brief, just a giggle, but it’s more than anyone else’s managed to get out of him in the last months. “I mean they’re crazy good. Then there’s us. You don’t like running and I don’t like classes.”

Pieck’s smile grows wider, not for Porco’s small dig, but as if she were expecting another answer. “Alright. Aren’t you forgetting someone?”

“Reiner’s not going to get a Titan,” declares Porco, and he’s so sure of it, he has to add immediately, “he’s only good at running his mouth and writing what the officers want to read. He’s getting decent with the rifle and he’s not a bad runner but he sucks at everything else.”

This time, Pieck’s reaction is a bit colder: her smile grows again, but it’s forced. “How opinionated.”

“It’s true.”

Before speaking up again, Pieck starts tying her hair up in a messy ponytail, and Porco for some reason won’t stop looking. “I’ll tell you this. Maybe the Marleyans value loyalty more than ability, depending on the soldier.”

Porco tears his gaze away from the nape of her neck, and mumbles, “what good is loyalty if you suck on the battlefield?”

“A loyal soldier will do everything that’s asked of him. Same can’t be said for a capable one,” interjects Zeke, from somewhere behind Porco: he almost curses out loud, and tries to steady his breathing, while Pieck giggles quietly.

“You scared Porco.”

Zeke stares at her for a long second before opening his mouth in a small ‘o’ and, eloquently, saying “oh” out loud, in surprise. He turns towards Porco, amused, and adds, “sorry for scaring you,” but he’s having too much fun with this and Porco finds himself more irritated than he normally would be.

“You should try to get along with Reiner,” she chides then, and it’s one of those rare moments in which she really passes for how old she actually is, more than Marcel but less than Zeke. “We already have a hard time here, it helps to be friendly with each other.”

“But you did get along before, didn’t you?” interjects Zeke again, and Porco rolls his eyes. “What happened? You hardly talk to each other now…”

“None of your business,” he spits, getting up and leaving behind a giggling Pieck and a very confused Zeke.

It’s none of their business, for real. Marcel asks him sometimes, as well: why aren’t you talking to Reiner anymore, what happened, why are you always glaring at him when he asks questions during classes, why aren’t you sitting near him at lunch… so many questions he can’t be bothered to answer.

It happens during history class, when the instructor- not Commander Magath, thankfully, he’d been out on duty for the week- chooses to read out loud the potential candidates’ essays.

They had to write four full pages on the subject of self-sacrifice, something Porco hadn’t ever thought about, not by giving it a name at least. He asked Marcel about it, and both Mum and Dad too, before he could even think of writing a single word: he’d stayed up almost all night before the due date, managing to squeeze out three and a half pages, and he wishes it will be enough for the new instructor.

To no one’s surprise, Marcel’s essay gets the highest grade of the day. The instructor even uses words Porco’s never heard in his life, like ‘poignant’, and hell knows what that means. Porco knows a lot of curses, does that mean he can become a teacher, too?

And also to no one’s surprise, Reiner’s essay gets showered in praise even more than Marcel’s, despite its grade being a bit lower. Six full pages of whatever his mum told him all these years, throwing the good parts of Reiner out and leaving only the bad ones, like his constant preaching about the sins of their people, the island devils, and the way his grades are rising slowly but constantly. Soon he won’t be the last of their group anymore, and Porco can’t even begin to stand the thought of replacing him, of being dead last, for good. That simply can’t happen, not to him, not because of rectangle-kid, with his ridiculous skin and hair and wide eyes.

That’s why he’d rather not talk to him anymore: he’s not worth it. Porco is just going to feel frustrated at him getting better at everything, leaving him behind, just like everyone else is doing.

In that moment, as Reiner smiles at the instructor’s compliments, cheeks and ears bright red, Porco swears to himself he’ll never be second to him in anything at all.

Crumpled leaves, in every shade of red and orange, lie at the edge of the main street that leads to the gate: Porco’s seen this very same road with all kinds of weather, by now. Many months have passed, and it’s almost his birthday: he’s turning nine this year.

They get up even earlier than they used to: now that they’re older the training’s gotten rougher, the words of praise scarce and stilted, everyone’s grades progressively getting lower. Marcel’s always said that they do it to motivate them, to test their mental strength, or something like that: he’s always seemed to know more about the selection process than anyone else.

As usual, they walk to the gate in silence. Getting up in the morning has become a chore for Porco: his joints tend to crack more often when he gets out of bed, and he can’t seem to keep his eyes open. Marcel, on the other hand, takes it better, but that might be because he’s older; Mum and Dad are always saying it’s because they’re growing up, it’s only natural to feel more tired.

“Bullshit,” mumbles Porco, though he grins as he hears Marcel’s sleepy little snort.

“What.”

“What, what.”

“What’s bullshit now?”

“Mornings,” yawns Porco. “They’re total bullshit.”

“Yeah, they are. We sound so old and tired,” laughs Marcel, rubbing at the corner of one eye.

“Tired, yes. Old, no. I don’t have a beard.”

“Doubt you can even grow one, you’re blond.”

“I’m not blond,” whines Porco, and rolls his eyes too, because now Marcel is laughing, and no one in their right mind can laugh out loud when the sun still isn’t up yet. It’s too early. “I’m a bit ginger.”

“A bit ginger. Alright.”

“Piss off, it’s too early for this.”

“Just because Reiner is blond doesn’t mean you can’t be, too-”

“Oh, hell,” groans Porco, “why does everything I do or say have to do with him!?”

“Potty mouth,” is Marcel’s answer, between muffled laughs. Porco rolls his eyes again, leaving it for now. It’s no use.

Marcel’s teasing has been sitting wrong with Porco for most of the morning: he decides to fight it by looking at Pieck.

He’s been doing that increasingly often, lately. The way her hair falls down her shoulders, her half-lidded eyes, her pale skin: she looks different, somehow, from the other girls Porco knows. He knows she is. Annie’s different, too, but Pieck talks to him more. She actually listens.

Though Porco himself breaks the spell too soon: he finds the pattern quickly, how he looks at Pieck with insistence whenever thoughts about Reiner start to weigh on him, or after a good dose of Marcel’s teasing. Pieck is a distraction, and it wounds him, because he doesn’t want her to be one. He’d like for things to be different. Marcel has no trouble at all when talking to Annie, why can’t he be more like him?

“Something on your mind?” asks Bertolt, shaking Porco from his thoughts.

“Uh… it’s nothing,” he mumbles, staring down at his rifle. He still has to load the bullets. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“I was going to fall asleep,” replies Porco, practical, and cracks a small grin when Bertolt laughs.

“I understand. I’d give everything to get a good night of sleep, until late in the morning,” he sighs, then blinks, rapidly, and shakes his head: Porco has to look at him, the grin on his face getting wider by the second. “All I talk about is sleeping. That’s worrying.”

“As long as you don’t start taking naps on the battlefield, no problem.”

“Oh, no, that won’t happen,” laughs back Bertolt, though there’s a hint of hesitation in his voice, “if I even get there, anyway.”

“Of course you’re going to. You’re good at everything.”

“Not everything. But thanks.”

“Stop with the false modesty, you’re good, just take it.”

Bertolt is getting so red in the face he’s almost starting to sweat. Porco doesn’t point it out for his sake. “Actually, Porco… I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go on,” he concedes, focusing on his rifle again, handling the bullets with the utmost care.

It takes a while for Bertolt to speak up, so Porco stops and turns to look at him: he’s biting the inside of his cheek, looking nervous, maybe regretting what he just said. Eventually he asks, in a lower voice than before, “could you stop giving Reiner the silent treatment? He’s not taking it well.”

Despite himself, Porco sighs, and goes back to his bullets. The thought of having to clean them properly is giving him nightmares. He hates doing that. “I’m not forced to talk to him, we’re not friends. We’re just in the same group.”

“So that goes for us, too? For Annie, and for me?”

Porco puts the bullet down with care, before turning back towards Bertolt. “Yeah,” he admits, and chooses to ignore how Bertolt’s face seems to fall, just a little bit. He takes it well. “It’s not like we see each other after we come here. We don’t even talk anymore.”

“That’s because we’re too tired, maybe?” suggests Bertolt, and there’s no malice in his words, he’s genuinely pointing out a problem, something that prevents them from being friends. “But you’re never too tired to speak with Zeke, or Pieck for that matter…”

Bertolt’s learnt a bunch of difficult words, too, and Porco hates it: it reminds him of Marcel, and how he wants to act all grown-up and wise. “I’m not choosing who clicks and who doesn’t.”

“Are we not worth the effort?”

He’s so insistent, Porco forgets he’s talking to Bertolt of all people, for a second. “Are you jealous or what? Is this about him or is it about you?”

This time, Bertolt doesn’t answer immediately. There’s something different in his eyes, now: he’s almost glaring at Porco, unmoving, arms straight and rigid at his sides. Like he’s taking his time, studying Porco’s reactions, or lack of them. Eventually, he mumbles, lips barely moving, “you’re just getting left behind, and nobody wants that,” then turns around, and leaves Porco alone with his dirty bullets and heavy rifle- and a heavy heart, too.

Left behind? Like, in grades? Porco doesn’t think that’s true. They’re all lagging behind, every single instructor’s become a lot stricter. It’s not his fault. And there’s no need to be friends forever, they’re just battling it out to see who gets a Titan first, aren’t they? Porco himself is not here to make any friends- he was, once, but now he’s grown up. Now he knows better.

He’s always been alone, save for Marcel, anyway. He can go on like this, like he’s always done.

Later, when he sits down at their usual table for lunch, he barely finishes his meal after noticing Marcel and Reiner talking to each other, Marcel not paying attention to his own brother, not even a glance, nothing, too taken with Reiner’s endless nonsense about island devils and punishing them for what they’ve done.

Yeah, that’s why he doesn’t need friends. All they’re good for is stomach-aches.

“Did you guys know? They say they’ll be attacking Paradis in just a few more years,” says Zeke, barely out of breath, as if the sweat rolling down his face is just for decoration.

Porco perks up at his words: they’re all catching their breath following their afternoon run, and six heads shoot up all at once as Zeke adds, “the time has come for us to inherit the Titans.”

Swallowing is hard, with his throat being this dry and all, but Porco does it anyway, grimacing, as Reiner echoes his thoughts somewhere behind him with a barely audible “huh?”.

“War is going to break with the south sooner or later, and the time for us to become warriors is approaching,” continues Zeke, standing up straighter. He’s become so tall lately that he totally looks like an adult. “So I’ve heard they’ll be reorganizing the warrior unit as a part of the army’s new structure.”

Porco doesn’t think much about the army, but- is Zeke implying that they’re going to be sent to war soon? He straightens his back, widening his eyes as Zeke declares, with bated breath, “out of us seven warrior candidates… six will be made warriors all at once.”

There’s barely time to register his words fully, before Reiner speaks up, all hushed and trembling with excitement, eyes wide like a maniac, “I did it- now I can become a Marleyan!”

Six out of seven? Porco would laugh if he weren’t this offended.

“Huh?” he echoes, his chin involuntarily lifting up as he turns back towards him, “you didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

He’s still bristling with irritation because of Bertolt’s words from before, and this whole situation, really: he doesn’t even regret what he just said, and instead keeps going until Reiner turns his stupid round head to look up at him, “you’re obviously the weakest in the group. If one person’s getting left behind, it’s going to be you.”

Porco doesn’t mind that everyone else’s suddenly gotten very silent, save for their heavy breathing gradually getting slower. Reiner swallows thickly before answering, eyebrows drawn together in confusion, “…what was that?”

“What are you good at?” Porco answers Reiner’s question with one of his own, and doesn’t wait for Reiner’s rebuttal as he adds, growing more and more irritated as he talks, “are you strong? Smart? A good shot? A good fighter?”

He looks him dead in the eye as his voice gets louder, brash, “you’re none of those, huh? What they saw in you was the loyalty to Marley you displayed in the written tests, wasn’t it?”

Someone tries to stop him, calling his name, quietly- Bertolt? Marcel? He doesn’t give a damn. “I respect you for that, you make sure to lick Commander Magath’s boots every single day.” Now Reiner openly stares at him, eyes wide, back straight and rigid, his pink cheeks ridiculously round and pathetic, and Porco can’t stop himself from giving his worst Reiner impression, saying in a shrill, comical voice, “yes sir, I promise I’ll kill all those island devils, sir,” and it’s a flood, really- he’s trembling all over, he has to move his hands around as he confronts Reiner about his delusions, because it’s just what they are: someone has to tell him he’s going to be left behind, useless and innocuous, just like he’s always been.

He’s probably going to start crying pathetically now, whining that it’s not true, that he won’t-

“Don’t you know who’s on that island? Devils who’ve brought fear to the entire world!”

Porco actually has to step back at Reiner’s aggression, his voice so loud it startles everyone else, and he keeps going, much like Porco just did, “it’s only a matter of time until they start slaughtering us unless we kill them! Are you insulting our mission!?”

He tries to interrupt Reiner, to calm him down, but it’s all useless as he just keeps going, sounding more and more delirious, “or are you one of the remaining Eldian restorationists who support King Fritz!? Admit it! I know it’s true- I’ll report you to the Commander!”

Now this- this is too much. Who’s this kid? He doesn’t recognise Reiner anymore. Porco sees red, and shouts back, “what’s the matter with you?” as his fist lands right on Reiner’s face, pushing him to the ground, “anyone can complain about how much they hate the island, what’s so special about that!?”

Marcel is holding him still, now, blocking his arms: Porco didn’t even hear him, his tunnel vision focused on Reiner’s stupid face, wishing to punch it again and again until the stupid propaganda he keeps spouting will leak out of his equally stupid ears somehow.

Now he starts crying, he doesn’t even get up from the ground. There’s no way they’d choose him over Porco, no _fucking_ way. “You’re the one who’s going to stay here by yourself for thirteen years,” he spits, turning around with such force that he shoves Marcel back, who has the useless decency to apologise to Reiner- for what?, before following him as they gather behind Zeke, who clears his throat awkwardly, unsure on how to handle the situation.

“Come as soon as he’s done crying,” he calls out to Bertolt, who of course will stay behind to wipe the tears off his precious friend’s face. “I’m gonna catch another beating from Commander Magath if you’re late.”

They’re all going to catch a beating anyway, what does it matter? They’re already late, and it’s all Reiner’s fault, with his stupid delusions and the stupid things that kept coming out of his mouth. Porco’s done well, he knows, he regrets absolutely nothing he’s said to him.

Later, when the Commander does just what Zeke said he would, Porco realizes there’s very little difference between his constant barking and what he himself did to Reiner.

Good, he thinks. Commander Magath never has any stupid problems, only grown-up ones. If he had to imitate someone when growing up, it’d be him.

“What was that?” snorts Marcel when they’re going to bed, later than usual, and they’re both sporting fresh bruises on their knees. “I mean, your pathetic fight with Reiner. What are you thinking?”

Porco winces as he sits on the bed, pain flaring up his thighs. “Someone had to tell him.”

“And you had to go and make a scene? It’s your fault if we all got another punishment this week.”

“They’re going to punish us anyway, just because we’re Eldians, so just take it and shut up.”

“Oh, no way, Porco. You’ve got to stop talking like this,” scoffs Marcel, and Porco lifts his chin, staring him dead in the eye. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you but I don’t recognise my brother anymore.”

“I’m tired and under pressure. Blame me,” murmurs Porco, though he has to avert his gaze. Marcel is older, and the difference is barely there, with them being the same height and build: even then, when Marcel calls him out he can’t help but listen, because he’s the only one who actually manages to make him feel bad for what he says or does or simply for how he is.

“That’s no excuse.”

“What do you care, anyway? You know I’m right, they’re never going to choose him.”

Marcel closes his eyes, and covers his face with a hand, looking tired beyond imagination. He’s been working harder than anyone else, Porco knows because he hardly sleeps at night, sacrificing a few hours of rest to get an early start on the others: only now, looking at his brother wearing such a tired and old expression, he feels kind of bad for what he did.

“Porco… we should all try to get along.”

“Why? You all keep saying that, I’m sick of it.”

“Because we’re going on missions together, soon, after we inherit the Titans… and we’ve got to work hard, as a team. If we don’t meet the army’s expectations we’re going to be stripped of our powers, and we all know what that means.”

Yes, Porco knows it very well, even though he never stopped to think about it too deeply. It’s something that won’t happen, anyway, so why bother? He won’t cause problems for anyone. He’s a good boy, just like the Commander said that one time last year. It must be true. “I was just telling him… he’s going to fall hard if he keeps thinking he’ll be selected.”

Porco expects another scolding from Marcel, or perhaps a sigh of defeat, a roll of his eyes: but instead, he gets nothing. Marcel freezes there, completely still, staring at Porco but without really seeing him. It’s eerie, somehow. Porco doesn’t know what his reaction means, but before he can ask, Marcel turns around and gets into bed, just like that, in complete silence.

They hardly get any sleep, with Porco listening in, wide-eyed, as Marcel sobs quietly every now and then, curled up in his bed.

Surprisingly enough, Zeke inherits his Titan first.

The Commander tells them that they will follow the next year, when the previous holders’ term will come to an end. He ignores Marcel’s question about the strange timing of Zeke’s predecessor, and reminds them to put everything they’ve got in the remaining tests: one of them will be left behind, after all. It’s entirely up to them who will be chosen or not.

This only causes the rift between Porco and Reiner to grow wider: they’re constantly fighting, Porco initiating with a sarcastic remark, and Reiner following suit with a pathetic rebuttal of his own, a constant back and forth that often sees Marcel and Bertolt try to split them up.

“You’re never going to be chosen anyway, cos you’re dead last,” spits Porco one evening as they walk out of the academy, after getting a barely average mark on his written test. Reiner hears those words from him so often that, Porco is sure, someday he’ll start believing them: it’s only natural, Porco would if he were in his place.

“I’m working just as hard as everyone else,” pouts Reiner, tears welling up in his eyes: Porco’s outbursts have been getting more frequent in the last months, and they’re getting to him, slowly but surely. “You can’t say that…”

“I’ve had enough,” interjects Marcel, grabbing Porco by the arm and tugging him backwards, forcefully, until he snaps his head towards him and is met with his brother’s icy glare. “Leave him alone, Porco. We’re late for dinner.”

This is Porco’s late childhood, the part he remembers the most at least: working hard, getting barely acceptable grades, and taking his frustration out on Reiner.

He doesn’t think he’ll regret this anytime soon.


	4. 04 - and everything is green and submarine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow look at the plot  
> quick update yet again, there's probably going to be another one on saturday but take it with a pinch of salt  
> enjoy (i hope)

On the tenth of November of the following year, Porco wakes up earlier than usual, rubs the sleep from his eyes, slips out of bed and makes a beeline for the kitchen: holding a handful of pears in his hands, he sits at the table and starts cutting them up in neat, thick slices, putting them on a plate to draw a circle in the middle of it, and later adding sun rays with the thinner slices. Just like Marcel used to do for Porco when he was little, after they got into an argument and to make it up to him: Porco would always find his pear slices, arranged like a big sun, on his favourite plate when he came back from playing outside.

Lately, Marcel’s been getting more and more irritated by Porco’s outbursts towards Reiner. Porco doesn’t really know why he takes it so personally: Marcel is going to be chosen either way, so why is he worrying like that for Reiner? He was always the most sensitive one, of course, but…

He pushes the plate aside, ready at Marcel’s usual spot: he won’t think ill of him if Porco steals a couple of slices, won’t he? He’s so hungry he forgot to cut up one for himself, but it doesn’t matter, he’ll just eat an apple for lunch.

Before he can drink from his glass of water, Marcel steps into the kitchen with his hair sticking up in all directions. Porco tries to offer him a smile, that probably turns into a grimace when Marcel doesn’t reciprocate: he sits at the table, looking down at the plate, but doesn’t touch a single slice. He just stares at it, doesn’t even sit up straight. Maybe he feels sick?

“Are you alright?” asks Porco in a hushed voice, not to wake up Mum and Dad. The walls in Liberio are very thin.

Marcel shrugs, grabbing a slice of pear and taking the smallest bite out of it. He keeps chewing for what feels like minutes, and Porco loses his patience quickly.

“If you feel sick I can cover for you… we only have history classes for the day anyway.”

“They’re announcing it,” he whispers, his voice wavering. “We’re going to be selected… today.”

Porco feels sick to his stomach, all at once.

Like a punch from the inside.

Like his ribcage wants to squeeze his lungs and blow them up.

“What,” he breathes, suddenly feeling too hot in his uniform despite the cold autumn weather, “how do you know-”

“Commander Magath told me.”

“Why didn’t he tell all of us? What… why now? All of a sudden? But…”

He’s not ready. Porco hates to admit it, but he’s truly not ready, not in the slightest, and Marcel must think the same because he can barely control his voice, shivering all the way down his throat even before it comes out. “We’ve got to get there sooner… without saying anything to our parents. We’re going to tell them when we come home, alright?”

Porco runs a hand through his hair, trying to hide how hard he’s shaking, even if Marcel can’t probably see it in their little poorly-lit kitchen. “Okay… I mean, we’re not waking them up now…”

The plate is pushed aside, towards Porco’s seat. Marcel stands up, his bottom lip quivering, and he looks so, so tired, it can’t just be the lack of sleep. Porco’s heart starts beating faster, he doesn’t like this one bit, especially when even Marcel is this scared.

“We don’t have time to eat. I’m going to get dressed then we’re leaving,” he mumbles, and walks out of the kitchen before Porco can even try to say something.

“…what’s wrong?”

Pieck draws her eyebrows together, and Porco has to avert his eyes. He knows they both look horrible, Marcel’s face pale like never before, and Porco a nervous, shivering mess; only Pieck has the guts to ask him about it, though, staying behind to bump his shoulder and ask her question.

Porco glances at Marcel, leading the group as they walk through the courtyard. Nobody except the two of them know anything: Bertolt and Reiner are talking to each other quietly, and Annie follows, a calm expression on her face. Marcel is visibly nervous, though, and it shows in the rigidness of his shoulders and how silent he is.

“We didn’t get much sleep, is all,” mumbles Porco, swallowing despite himself.

“Yeah, you’re a terrible liar, I knew that much. Spill it.”

They’re getting closer to the building- Marcel didn’t tell him where the selection will take place, but Porco suspects it’s going to happen any second. He gnaws on his lower lip before exhaling shakily, “I don’t- I can’t tell you, but-”

“Selection’s today?”

Porco hangs his head, and she sighs, crossing her arms around her stomach. “Well… that’s great. Wish I knew that sooner.”

He can’t answer: his tongue feels heavy like lead, because Marcel is knocking at the door of the main entrance, and his arm shakes visibly as he puts it down. Everyone goes quiet and still, like they noticed just now Marcel’s nervousness.

Commander Magath opens the door, looking paler than usual. He takes his time, staring down at all of them, his gaze lingering on Marcel for a bit longer: then he nods, clearing his throat, and roars into the morning, “Annie Leonhardt!”

Everyone freezes, and Annie actually jolts, her eyes blown wide as she answers weakly, “y-yes,” and Porco holds his breath as Magath steps aside, inviting her to walk inside without a word.

She follows him in, and the Commander closes the door behind them. Marcel turns around, looking like a ghost.

“What… what was that?” asks Reiner, his voice higher than usual. “What’s happening to Annie?”

Marcel takes a deep breath before answering. “We’re getting selected. That’s what’s happening.”

Bertolt starts sweating profusely: Porco would find it funny if his stomach weren’t dissolving into little pieces. Now he’s having second thoughts. What if he’s not going to be selected? That’s impossible, he knows it is, he’s got better grades than Reiner, the Commander likes him, but maybe he shouldn’t be so hard on Reiner- and he wrote a lot of bullshit in the other day’s test, and he’s kind of slacking off lately during their daily runs… everything could mean failure, and he’s glad he skipped breakfast because he’s seriously about to throw up.

Porco doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually the door clicks open: all their heads snap up then, and they see Annie walk out, tears sliding down her cheeks as she grits her teeth, seemingly scared. Commander Magath roars, again, and Porco’s heart skips a beat when he calls, “Marcel Galliard!”

Marcel, who sat still like a statue up until now, swallows thickly and walks inside, all alone, and now he looks small, too young for what he’s about to do- he’s a child, his brother, he’s only eleven, almost all of them are children; who allowed this? At their age? Now? Couldn’t they wait a bit longer? Porco hugs himself, arms crossing over his stomach. He can’t look anyone in the eye. Not now. He’s going to throw up any moment.

As soon as the door closes, Pieck rushes to Annie’s side, as she slides down to sit on the ground, back to the wall and hands in her hair.

“Annie, what happened?” she whispers, not touching her for fear of a violent reaction. Porco holds his breath as Annie sighs, shakily, and answers, her soft voice almost booming in the thick silence that dominates the courtyard.

“I got selected.”

Is that relief, then? Porco doesn’t know what he imagined, but he sure didn’t expect something like this- the Commander barking their names, the whole of Liberio silent as if they were listening in, as if everybody knew except them. All the anxiety, the nauseating feeling deep down his stomach, Annie’s tears, even Marcel being so tense and nervous: Porco could have never guessed it would go down like this.

Time trickles slowly, Reiner pacing around nervously and Bertolt completely still, Porco taking deep breaths to calm himself down, and there’s the faint bustle of people coming out of their houses now that dawn has finally broken over Liberio.

When Marcel comes out, he’s even paler than before, but he’s not crying: he just looks shocked. Porco releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and his eyes fill up with tears as Marcel walks towards him, even though he’s not meeting his gaze: he did it. Marcel did it. Mum and Dad will be proud.

“Pieck Finger!”

Before getting up, Pieck pats lightly the top of Annie’s head, then follows the Commander, biting down on her bottom lip. Porco’s heartbeat speeds up even more: two Titans left, and there’s three of them.

“Oh,” whines Bertolt, breaking the silence, and even Annie’s head snaps up at hearing his voice, “I’m going to throw up. I’m throwing up.”

Marcel is about to turn around and do something for him, but Reiner is faster: his hand grabs Bertolt’s, and it’s obvious he’s even more anxious than him, and he’s probably all clammy and unpleasantly warm, but Bertolt cracks a half smile and hangs his head, his ears bright red.

Porco feels even sicker.

This time, the Commander opens the door earlier than usual. Pieck is resting a hand on the side of her face as she returns to her previous spot beside Annie. They’re not talking, because they don’t need to: Annie looks at her with an uneasy smile, hair all sweaty, and Pieck hangs her head, a high-pitched sob managing to get out of her.

It’s realization, Porco understands: they’ve all worked hard to get here, and to get it officially acknowledged must be one hell of a feeling.

“Bertolt Hoover!”

Porco stares right into Reiner’s eyes, and he lets go of Bertolt’s hand, his lips parting as he returns Porco’s glare. The door closes, somewhere around them, somewhere that Porco doesn’t care about in the slightest, now: one of them will be chosen, and the other will be left behind.

For some reason, Porco relaxes. His heartbeat slows down, his hands stop sweating, he can stand up straighter: it’s only Reiner, after all, good with words and written essays, but barely average at everything else. He’s small, his face constantly littered with red blotches of embarrassment and awkwardness, his hair cut so short it makes his head look ridiculous, his whole little body shaped like a rectangle, all big bones and thick skin. There’s no way he’s going to be chosen. He trips over himself when they run, he can’t shoot decently to save his life, he’s going to get everyone killed if they dare to entrust him with one of Marley’s greatest weapons, the door clicks and Bertolt comes out, here’s the Commander, there’s literally no way on this earth that they’re going to choose-

“Reiner Braun!”

There’s blood pumping wildly in his body, he can feel it in behind his ears.

Its rhythm is annoying: he wishes it would go away.

Nobody moves, everyone is completely silent. Seconds pass, no one could say how many, before another bark tears through the cold morning air of November.

“Reiner Braun! Get inside, now!”

He’s not staring into amber eyes anymore, because he moves- he walks away, leaving him behind.

So, he runs. All across the courtyard, out of the gate, down the main street, round the corner, and he’s home.

Everything goes faster, for some reason: time has sped up, it’s the only explanation.

There’s Mum and Dad, but they’re different. Those words feel like ashes in his mouth, so he keeps them in, gulps them down like bitter medicine. He almost trips on the way to his bedroom, voices are following him, but he doesn’t listen, he doesn’t need any of that.

He slams the door behind him, ignores his name being called, and it’s those voices, again, demanding something, maybe an explanation. He turns the key and locks himself inside, covers his ears, back to the door, sliding to the ground.

Then he breaks down.

At some point in time, Marcel’s voice comes to him from the other side of the door.

“Porco… open up.”

“Fuck off.”

“Porco!” roars Dad, who’s right there with Marcel, apparently. “What kind of language is that!?”

“Like anyone cares,” mumbles Porco, his knees popping as he shifts to rest his legs on the floor.

“Stop being unreasonable! You’re ruining your brother’s special day!”

Marcel’s special day. Porco rests the back of his head against the door, his whole face scrunching up, tears flowing freely down his burning cheeks. Marcel’s special day, not his. Annie’s special day, Pieck’s special day, Bertolt’s special day…

Reiner’s special day.

He hangs his head, then throws it back against the door, harder. “I don’t give a fuck!”

Dad bangs his fist on the door at hearing that, swearing out loud, much harsher than he usually does, like Porco’s never heard before. He can’t stop the sobs that sit in his throat anymore, and they claw their way out of it, stinging and burning.

“As soon as you come out I’m going to beat some good sense into you, I swear!” he shouts, and he walks away, apparently, because Porco can’t hear him as loud as before. Now Mum is shouting something, too, and there- there it is, they’re screaming at each other.

What did they do to deserve this, and all that. Splendid.

“Porco, come out, please. Don’t make this worse than it already is,” begs Marcel, almost whispering, his own voice trembling. He’s scared, because Mum and Dad keep shouting at each other, something falls down on the ground, hard, maybe it’s a chair, maybe something else- he knows they’re both crying, for different reasons, and Porco hates when Marcel cries. He’s not supposed to, he should be helping him, but all he can ask is for him to stop, so Dad won’t be upset anymore.

“He’s going to beat me,” sobs Porco, sounding pathetic to his own ears, wiping his nose on the back of his hand, “he’s going to beat me again, I don’t want that. Please, stop him…”

Marcel can get the best grades, he’s a quick thinker, smart, and he’s a chosen warrior: but he can’t save his brother from a beating he doesn’t deserve. He can’t even comfort him for the years he just wasted, for how his whole world came crumbling down in the span of a few seconds… Marcel can’t do anything for him now, so what good is he?

It’s his birthday tomorrow, too.

“I’m sorry,” murmurs Marcel.

When his father starts banging on the door with both fists, still screaming obscenities, Porco gives up and stands, sniffling pathetically as he unlocks the door.

Enlistments are open again: the Marleyan army doesn’t want to push its luck in case something goes wrong. Every discarded candidate is free to try again, and hardly anyone refuses. It’s full of familiar faces at lunchtime, the room buzzing with loud chatter, people of almost all ages from seven to fifteen sitting in chairs that had been forgotten for months.

Porco sits by himself, tearing off small pieces of bread and eating them carefully, not to upset the left side of his face, still a bit swollen. Some days have passed, and he can yawn and cough without pain flaring up his head most of the time, now: his eye’s also looking better than yesterday.

He’d have come anyway: today is the day Marcel and the others will be given their honorary Marleyan armband, a red one, something Porco’s never seen up close in his life. And he’ll be wearing one for the rest of his life, for all the wrong reasons.

It’s a small ceremony, nothing out of the ordinary. They stand in line out in the courtyard, all the other children clapping respectfully as they’re given the armbands: they still haven’t inherited the Titans, so it’s just a formality, and there’s no telling what could happen during the injection, so it feels more like a good luck charm than anything.

Marcel is given three additional armbands, while the others get another one only, being children of single parents. Porco can’t even look at them in the face: he’s ashamed of his state, though he knows they can’t possibly imagine what went down at home on that day. Still, he can’t meet anyone’s gaze. Especially Braun’s.

It’s easier to think of him as a last name, Braun, like his mother’s. That way, Porco can focus on her instead. It’s a strategy that works wonders, especially when thinking of his father, too. He’s not Dad, not anymore. Not like Mum and Marcel, they can stay.

When Porco looks back up, Marcel is walking towards him, an uncertain smile on his face. He’s starting to lose weight, his face is less round than it was before.

“Here,” he says, handing one of the armbands to him. “You can put it on immediately, so we can go see how it is on the other side if you want,” he offers, and Porco takes it, but doesn’t wear it. He shakes his head.

“Alright,” concedes Marcel. He’s already wearing his own. They’re probably going to hang out all together, what with afternoon classes having been cancelled and all, and Porco wants none of that. “I’m off with the others later today… you sure you don’t want to come?”

Porco hesitates. He’d rather sit around in their bedroom all day, but it’s not like he feels safe at home, either.

“Come on. You don’t have to talk or anything, just… tag along,” insists Marcel, lowering his voice to make sure no one is listening in. “I don’t want you to stay at home on your own.”

This time, Porco nods, holding his left cheekbone unconsciously: that’s when someone else joins the conversation, unfortunately.

“What happened to your face, Porco?” asks Bertolt, all wide eyes and parted lips. “It looks painful…”

To avoid unnecessary jolts of pain, Porco manages a half smile as he shrugs. Marcel answers in his place, immediately, “oh, he just fell down the stairs at home. He’s a dumb sleepyhead in the morning.”

Bertolt is not stupid: he stares at Porco, at the state of his eye in particular, his swollen cheekbone and all. Before he can ask something else, Annie steps up as well, eyes uncharacteristically wide all of a sudden.

“So you fell down the stairs?” she asks, and Marcel nods immediately: though he stops dead in his tracks when she adds, “looks like they pack quite the punch. Did it hurt?”

Ignoring Marcel’s glare, Porco gestures to his face, eyebrows raised.

“I see,” she nods, “then I can teach you how to avoid that in the future, if you’re up for it.”

Both Marcel and Bertolt keep glancing back and forth between Annie and Porco, as he hangs his head, sparing her a curt nod. He thought Marcel could come up with better excuses: Annie saw right through it.

“Anyway, we should get going,” pipes up Bertolt, clearly uncomfortable with the way things have turned out: Annie follows him after throwing a quick glance at Porco, again, as if to make sure of something only she could see. Then, they’re gone, Marcel sighing and massaging his temples.

“Before you say anything,” he warns, “no, you shouldn’t have stayed home. And they won’t tell anyone.”

Porco would very much like to ask him, why can’t they talk about it? No one ever speaks up after getting beaten, it’s how things work: but now that he’s been on the receiving end of one of the worst punishments he’s ever endured, he’s not going to accept anything like it ever again. There’s no acceptable explanation for it, and he only feels stupid for accepting all the other beatings from their father in the past.

They start crossing the courtyard to get out of the academy when Marcel stops all of a sudden, and Porco has to turn his whole head to the side so he can see properly who he’s talking to- it’s Braun, stealing occasional glances at Porco every now and then as he murmurs something to Marcel. There’s worry on his stupid face, and it disgusts Porco. He wonders if his mum beats him up, too.

“Porco,” he squeaks then, crossing the distance between them, Marcel staying behind to allow them some semblance of privacy. “I heard what happened… you fell down the stairs. Bertolt told me.”

Of course Bertolt told him. Next thing he knows they’re going to hold each other’s dick when they piss. Oh, he’d love to say that out loud, just to see what kind of idiotic reaction he could get out of him.

Before adding anything else, Braun starts wringing his hands, never averting his eyes though as he adds, “I hope it never happens again. I’m sorry… I want to make things right.”

Then he offers his hand.

Porco stares down at it: it’s pink, and it looks clammy, unpleasant. He glances back up, meeting Braun’s wide eyes, and it strikes him only now, how bright they are. He thinks of honey first, but it’s more like amber- he knows that because Mum used to have a pair of old earrings in that colour, her favourite ones, and she would always correct everyone who told her they were yellow: no, it’s amber, it’s different. Better than yellow and worse than gold, she said once.

Clearly, he doesn’t give a damn about someone who stood by and watched as his father socked him right in the face. It’s only natural, and irritating, because the last thing he wants is to associate Braun to Mum, too, even if they’re both selfish cowards.

“Fuck off,” he manages, spitting as he gets it out of his mouth, his head throbbing in pain, curses sounding lighter and lighter on his tongue the more he uses them. He wants none of that- Braun doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and his stupid eyes widen even more at that, when Porco turns around to walk back home, Marcel hurrying to catch up with him and ask him whatever happened now, he just wanted to clear things up, he didn’t mean to insult him.

Well, then he should have never joined the program, he wants to say. But his head hurts too much, so he’ll leave it to Marcel’s imagination.

Pieck holds his hand as they walk out of the internment zone, the stark difference in their surroundings leaving them all speechless for quite a bit.

“I won’t ask what happened,” she clarifies, “but if you need anything I’m here.”

She squeezes his hand: Porco squeezes it back, his cheeks warmer than usual.

Zeke leads the small group: he knows his way around, he says, and they all follow like scared little ducklings. Marcel is, of course, immediately behind him as he chats away with Braun and Bertolt, pointing out random things that strike their fancy. Zeke turns his head and chimes in with an explanation of his own, occasionally, and they all listen with bated breath, looking up at their taller leader.

Their leader.

Annie is keeping up with the group, just barely, content with following Porco and Pieck’s slower pace. They’re not that interested in what lies outside the internment zone: Porco has worse things to worry about, Pieck is unfazed, and Annie seems to have a lot of thoughts fighting it out in her head. She’s even more silent than usual.

“You’re not interested much, are you,” asks Pieck then, and Annie scoffs. Pieck is the only one in their group that can get anyone to open up with little to no effort.

“Same as you,” she retorts, to Pieck’s delight. She giggles, squeezing Porco’s hand tighter, and for some reason tears start to gather in his eyes. “Let’s go back and do something different then, what do you say?”

“Hmm. I don’t think we should split up, actually…”

“Why’s that?”

Pieck almost starts hopping, and Porco grimaces, his arm hanging at an awkward angle now that he’s shooting up in height and almost reaching her. “We’re being watched, you know. Let’s pretend we’re interested in how the rich snobby Marleyans live.”

“Right,” answers Annie, a fake gasp before she speaks, her eyes widening comically. “Let’s do that.”

They never let go of each other’s hand, not even when Porco’s gets all sweaty.

His heart starts beating faster when it’s time to head back home, and he offers Pieck a crooked, awkward grin: she smiles back.

It’s probably the last time they walk to the main gate, together.

Porco’s face is mostly healed, now that another week has passed: he can talk with little to no trouble, his jaw still popping awkwardly when he opens his mouth too much. He grimaces as he swallows the last of his breakfast, and manages not to roll his eyes as Marcel announces their departure to their parents, to which they answer with warm hugs and recommendations, not even bothering with sending off Porco. He doesn’t care anyway.

“You said it will take two or three days at most?” asks Porco, his voice too airy, trying hard not to be bothered by the whole situation with their parents.

“Yeah, I think so. It all depends on the recovery time… it can take longer for some. It also depends on the Titan,” he answers, his words laced together by sleep and exhaustion.

He’s tired already, and he’s supposed to inherit his Titan later in the afternoon. They won’t be seeing each other for days, until he recovers and manages to control his transformation at will: Marcel is smart and capable, he’ll manage to control himself faster than the others and he’ll come home safe and sound, it’s only obvious.

“Don’t take too long,” mumbles Porco, and Marcel scoffs, softer than he usually would, as if he were afraid of breaking his brother with too much sarcasm.

They part ways before Porco can catch up with the others: he sends Marcel off with a half-hearted smile, feeling pathetic for not knowing what to say, for failing to be by his side at such a critical moment. It’s not like Porco fully realizes it, either: everyone else behaves as if the selected warriors are going to inherit their Titans through a written test.

Porco allows himself to glance at Pieck: she’s talking to Annie, and doesn’t notice him even if he keeps staring. Eventually, Commander Magath walks up to them, still looking pale- he’s not feeling very well apparently, these days. He nods, and they all follow him inside, as everyone else in the courtyard falls silent.

Exhaling shakily, Porco turns around, his mind conjuring all sorts of scary scenarios involving Marcel and Pieck and the others, and what they’re going to have to do to inherit their Titans.

A shiver runs down Porco’s spine.


	5. 05 - and no one showed us to the land and no one knows the where's or why's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter always means early update  
> they're going to slow down after the next one, though, so enjoy it while it lasts  
> have a good one <3 FINAL SEASON TOMORROW

It takes exactly three days for Marcel to get dismissed.

Their parents have come to pick him up, too, and Porco makes sure to stand as far from them as possible, waiting at the main gate. It’s dark outside, and cold, December creeping in early on the tail end of November: Commander Magath is wearing a heavier winter coat as he comes out, holding hands with Marcel, who wears a coat just like the Commander’s, though it’s so big it covers all of him down to his feet.

Their mother is the first one to run towards Marcel, as father inhales sharply, loudly. Porco can’t stop the tears that well up in his eyes as he focuses on Marcel’s face, the harsh shadows cast on his cheeks by the weak light of the streetlamps: he looks like a dead boy walking.

All of them are crying, either loudly, or silently, all of them except Marcel. Commander Magath rubs at his own eye as he looks away, for some reason. He also clears his throat before saying, in the softest voice Porco’s ever heard out of him in years, “get some rest, Marcel. You can come back whenever you’re ready, there’s no rush.”

Marcel barely nods. Their parents bid the Commander goodbye, thanking him for whatever it is he’s done, and they each grab one of Marcel’s hands, helping him to walk home, as Porco follows them a few steps behind, head hanging low.

Despite their mother’s best efforts, Marcel remains completely silent even as she brings him to the bathroom to wash up and change into his pajamas. Porco can hear whatever she’s saying because the walls are thin, and he wishes he lived out of the internment zone, in a proper house that could help him ignore the sweetness in their mother’s voice, something he barely even hears when Marcel isn’t home. Father’s voice booms awkwardly loud even as he whispers, when he walks into the bathroom to ask Marcel if he needs something.

It’s been almost two weeks, and no one’s ever said anything about Porco’s failure or how he feels right now. Like he’s failed so hard it doesn’t matter at all. Like he, himself, doesn’t matter anymore to his parents.

After a couple of hushed goodnight wishes, Marcel steps into their room, closing the door behind him softly. He locks it, and Porco sits up in bed straighter, eyes widening.

“I feel better if it’s locked,” croaks Marcel, his head low as he walks to the bed, flopping down on it with a heavy sigh. Porco stays still, moonlight streaming in from the window: Marcel’s lost a lot of weight, he can see his cheekbones popping out.

“How do you feel?” he asks, the words resting heavily on his tongue, stupid and superfluous. Though Marcel answers anyway.

“Dead. I feel like I died, back there.”

Porco swallows, fisting the sheets in both hands. “Want to talk about it?”

“I really don’t. Maybe in a few days. Or weeks.”

“Or months.”

“Maybe never, Porco. I’m glad you didn’t have to go through this.”

It stings, hard, and Porco recoils, just like he does when he’s shooting with his rifle. “That’s your opinion.”

Marcel turns his head, he stares, his eyes wide, unblinking, looking like a corpse, pale and thin and scared. “I ate a person.”

He has to tear his gaze away: he can’t do this. He should’ve kept quiet, ignored his brother’s suffering for his own good. Porco is about to retort that he’s not forced to talk about it, then, but there’s no stopping him, it’s like a flood- “I can’t remember anything, except that it’s like eating beef when it’s not cooked much and it bleeds, you know I find it disgusting. When I eat, I taste blood. When I drink, I taste blood. I can’t sleep, I haven’t slept in days, because as soon as I close my eyes I see him, he’s chained up, drugged, so he can’t fight back.”

“Fucking shut up, Marcel,” growls Porco, feeling sick to his stomach. He doubles down, hugging himself, holding his knees up to his chest, tightly: the sheets slide off his sitting form, but he doesn’t mind the cold, he’s too disgusted to care about that.

“Yeah, I will. I’ll deal with that,” answers Marcel, mechanically, like the barrel of the rifle clicking into place. Like a weapon ready to shoot. His brother is a killing machine, now: that’s what he’s worked so hard for, these past years, throwing his childhood away.

That’s what Porco almost became.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, and Porco doesn’t answer. He knows he’s going to have trouble falling asleep tonight.

During the wintery months that follow, their bedroom is colder, with Porco sleeping alone almost every night. Marcel would rather sleep in the academy quarters, after that one nightmare in which he’d transformed in his bed, blowing their house up in the process: Commander Magath understood, against Porco’s predictions, and took Marcel in. All the others joined him soon, anyway.

When Marcel starts sleeping at home again, they’re well into spring, and he’s been sent to the front lines a bunch of times already. He’s getting taller by the day, much like Porco, who despite his age and build manages to keep up. Marcel’s cheekbones are here to stay, too: that’s the only stark difference between them, both growing up slim and nimble, save for Marcel’s more defined features and his much darker hair.

Marcel gets sent home for a few days, at the end of March: he suggests going out of the internment zone with the others, one day, unusually chipper, and Porco accepts, taken aback by the request. He’s mostly curious to see how everyone else is doing, especially Pieck: he wonders if she’s gotten even cuter than when he last saw her.

They walk to the gate together, again, after so many months: it feels like a dream. Marcel’s getting better lately, that much is clear because he’s eating a bit more than he used to- at least when he’s home. He sports a lazy grin when he sees Annie and Pieck in the distance, waving at them: Porco stares at his brother for a bit, at how much he’s grown in a few months. He’s growing into a teenager, his features clear and a new strength in the way he holds himself.

He tries not to widen his eyes at Annie, who offers Marcel a calm, uncharacteristic smile, and focuses on Pieck, whose growth seems to have stopped: she’s as tall as Porco and Marcel, her hair a bit longer, still wavy and messy like it was tied up in a ponytail for too long.

“Hi Porco,” she chirps, “it’s been a while.”

Annie turns her head towards him, nodding and smiling as well, a little “hey” thrown at Porco that warms his heart. He clears his throat, feeling awkward, different, and small- they’re warriors now. Somehow, save for the red armbands, he can really tell even at first glance.

“Hi,” he sputters, suddenly overly conscious about himself. He hasn’t changed a bit except for his height, and he hopes they won’t think less of him because of that.

Before Marcel can say anything, Bertolt’s voice calls for them from the other side of the street, and Porco has to steel himself before turning around.

They haven’t seen each other since the day they inherited the Titans.

Bertolt is the tallest among them, now: his legs are long and lanky as he walks towards them, taking his time to greet everyone properly. He lets out a small gasp as he spots Porco, asking him how he’s doing, and that he looks forward to their next mission together. Porco doubts he’ll ever be sent as a simple soldier on the battlefield with the chosen warriors, but entertains Bertolt’s thought with a carefree laugh, something that sits so weird with his voice that Pieck can’t help but scoff.

“Hi, Porco.”

A raspier voice that Porco didn’t expect makes him turn his head sharply. Braun is standing there, right beside Bertolt, and he’s almost as tall as Porco and Marcel now. His hair is a bit longer, falling down on his big forehead, none of that buzzcut nonsense he used to sport once: his face is still round, and his waist is definitely slimmer, so he doesn’t look like a rectangle anymore.

Porco lifts his chin, barely, to answer his greeting. Braun’s gaze doesn’t falter, he just looks away, his face lighting up as he greets the others, and the difference in his behaviour leaves Porco feeling almost wounded- something he truly doesn’t understand. Who cares about him. They’re not on speaking terms anyway.

”Zeke couldn’t make it,” sighs Pieck once they walk past the guards, into the main street out of the internment zone.

Bertolt turns around, his face falling at Pieck’s words. “Is he alright?”

Clicking her tongue, Pieck explains, “he’d rather sit in his room all day, reading books. He’s not very sociable.”

Annie almost snorts. “I’m not either, but I came anyway. That’s no excuse.”

At that, Marcel laughs out loud, all the others following suit, except Porco, who feels left out even when it comes to inside jokes. “Yeah, about that… what’s up with you lately? You’re so accommodating.”

“Just wanted to surprise you. Maybe summon a bit of rain while I’m at it.”

Bertolt laughs louder than the others, and Porco snorts at that- then he sees how he turns to the side, throwing a glance at Annie, then turns back as if nothing happened. Marcel doesn’t seem to notice that, and Porco surely won’t tell him.

They don’t do much: a lot of walking around aimlessly, chatting the morning away, buying a bunch of sweets for lunch, healthy meals be damned. It’s unusually sunny today, so they rest near the port, in a strategic place where no boats are stationed and they can see the waves lazily rolling back and forth, a soothing background noise that fills the silence as they finish eating.

Braun shifts on the bench, his elbow lightly bumping into Porco’s arm- they’re sitting next to each other, obviously, like Marcel almost planned it; he snaps his head towards Porco, eyes wide as he blurts out an awkward “sorry,” and Porco just shrugs, spine going rigid as he keeps staring forward and munching half-heartedly on his cake.

“I know it sounds stupid,” says Bertolt, his mouth full, “but I can’t wait for our next leave.”

“Already?” questions Annie immediately, eyeing Porco’s barely touched cake with worrying insistence. Porco holds it closer to himself, just in case.

“Who knows when the next one’s gonna be? He’s got a point,” pipes up Pieck, Marcel nodding slowly at her words, and he can’t stop his shoulders from falling before Porco notices it. He doesn’t want to think about that, either: it’s bad enough that he only gets to spend time with his brother once a month if he’s lucky.

“It’s our duty,” now Braun speaks up, rubbing a few crumbs of cake off his face. “We can’t rest too much, Marley’s fate depends on us after all.”

There’s no visible reaction from anyone at his words, except Bertolt, who hums in agreement, probably out of politeness. Porco still isn’t used to Braun’s rougher voice, or to his behaviour, completely different from the lost, awkward kid he was just last year- and yet he’s still deep into his propagandistic ideas, courtesy of his mother.

He’s not hungry anymore. “Annie, do you want this? I ate too much.”

She doesn’t even answer, just whispers a word of thanks, before grabbing the leftover cake from his hands as if she’d been waiting for it.

“Nothing’s changed, then,” sighs Marcel, stretching his arms as they walk home, the sun disappearing slowly at the horizon.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re still not talking to Mum and Dad, and you won’t even look at Reiner in the face… that, I mean.”

Great. They just had a decent day out and he has to go and ruin it like that. It was coming, though: Porco noticed how Marcel tried to talk to Pieck all afternoon, so that Porco had never been able to even exchange a couple of words with her, as if he knew.

“I’ve failed,” he snorts, no trace of amusement in his voice, “so they’re not taking me into consideration. Why should I talk to them?”

“Fine, but what does Reiner have to do with that? He hasn’t hit you or anything.”

Porco rolls his eyes. “So it’s fine with our parents, but you can’t let the damn thing with Braun go?”

A shrug is Marcel’s easy answer. “They’re our parents, you’re going to let it go sooner or later. I don’t think you’re going to do that with Reiner if I don’t do something about it.”

Oh, he hates him when he acts like he’s an adult. “Leave it, it’s none of your business anyway.”

“It is.”

Marcel doesn’t look at him when Porco asks him what he means by that: he changes subject cheerfully, as if he decided against telling him something, out of the blue.

Maybe a couple of days a month is not enough: Porco is afraid he doesn’t know his brother as well as he should, not anymore.

Classes are getting longer and complicated: Porco finds he’s growing more interested in them, especially history ones, now that Braun is not there anymore to interrupt with questions after questions. Harder training sessions have also resumed, and to no one’s surprise Porco is the top graded candidate of the year.

He can’t stop wondering about Marcel’s potential grades, had he stayed longer: and Pieck’s, and everyone else’s. Though he likes to think he’d still be at the top, overflowing with confidence. Commander Magath is praising him more often, a harsh change from last year, and if Porco was taken aback at first now he expects at least a couple of compliments everyday.

May comes to an end, the yearly heatwave rearing its ugly head, and it’s a Sunday morning when the Commander knocks at the door of Porco’s house, his visit unexpected. He stays upstairs, huddled in bed, trying to eavesdrop on his conversation with his parents: they’re not bothering with keeping their voices down, thankfully.

“We’re thinking of sending him with the newest unit, come July,” announces the Commander, and Porco’s eyes widen at those words. “It’s nothing major, you can think of it as a field exam.”

A beat of silence, then his father speaks out, hesitation apparent in his voice, “…why him? He’s just a candidate. And he’s so young, too.”

Porco can imagine Commander Magath sitting at their kitchen table, his posture impeccable, a cigarette dancing from his lips to his fingers, as he considers his options carefully. Then he answers, “Porco is the top graded candidate this year. A proper hard-worker, I’d say. It’s only time he got the battlefield experience he deserves to grow even more.”

This time it’s his mother who questions the Commander, in a lower voice though, so that Porco has to squeeze his eyes shut as if he could hear better by doing that. “Why wasn’t he chosen last year, then?”

Commander Magath laughs, and it’s short, rough, dry, so much that it fills Porco with uneasiness. Then, when he speaks up again, he sounds completely serious. “That’s the magic of selection standards. I gave up trying to understand them a long time ago.”

Now there’s silence: his parents are considering his words, obviously. Porco can guess with little effort what will go down: they’ll refuse, implying that Porco isn’t ready for his first mission, that he’s not cut out for being a warrior, that he’s a waste of a candidate spot and he should think of settling down and taking after his father’s workshop-

“We’ll talk to him and see what he wants to do,” says his father, not an ounce of hesitation as he speaks, “and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”

There’s more talking, but nothing that interests Porco in the slightest. His heart is beating faster, irrationally faster, he’s hyperventilating, even- what did he just say? Are they trusting him? Does this happen to every other promising candidate?

What has changed from last year, exactly?

“Porco, come down.”

For the first time in months, Porco does as he’s told without a roll of his eyes, a sigh, a whispered curse. He walks out of his bedroom, his step faltering, and salutes the Commander as soon as he turns around towards him.

“At ease,” he sighs, for some reason Porco can’t understand. “I gather you’ve heard everything we said.”

There’s no point in lying to him, so Porco nods with little hesitation.

“Then what’s your answer?”

Before Porco can even think of opening his mouth, his father raises his voice: “we said we’d talk to him first!”

The Commander is unfazed, but Porco’s mother covers her mouth. She’s heard quite a bit about Commander Magath, especially from Porco, when weekly punishments were a thing and he couldn’t hold a rifle properly to save his life. “I never said we needed your input. I just wanted you to know that your son is a full fledged soldier now, in the eyes of the Marleyan army.”

“He’s not a soldier, he’s a candidate-”

“Shut up,” spits the Commander now, his voice rising above Porco’s father’s, and if Porco himself is used to this, his parents surely aren’t: his mother recoils, his father speechless, mouth agape like a stupid, ugly fish out of water. “A mouth like yours is barely good enough to clean up my boots after I’ve stepped in horse shit.”

It hits different when those words are said to other adults. It feels like an aggression: Porco and the others used to cringe, gasp, maybe laugh it off, but it never stuck, because the Commander would always find different, exaggerated insults to throw every now and then. It felt like a game of sorts, an inside joke, but nothing like this. Now the Commander’s eyes are blown out, the vein on his temple threatening to pop out, his nostrils wide: Porco’s parents look tiny and miserable, their shoulders sagging, faces falling. He only notices it now, but his ears are ringing, his arms shaking wildly, breath hitching in his throat.

He’s afraid of the Commander. He’s not joking, now.

“Speaking out of turn to a Marleyan officer can get you a one-way trip to Paradis, if said officer wakes up on the wrong side of the bed. You know that very well.”

There’s no answer, not even a nod. Porco’s parents are frozen in place and time, pathetic, little, and powerless, and he wishes he could instill that kind of fear, too.

“…I apologise.”

“Like I care. Try not to do that again- I can’t promise you’ll find someone as forgiving as I am.”

Porco wipes a stray tear away from his face, before the Commander can turn around and spot it. “I hope you thought of a satisfying answer while I put your father in his place.”

Before he can think clearly, Porco nods with energy. “I’m going, sir! For our motherland of Marley!”

“Good boy,” grumbles the Commander, and Porco bites the inside of his cheek at that, basking in the small yet relevant praise and trying his best to ignore the bitter aftertaste of it. “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow for shooting practice.”

Just like that he walks out of their house, a curt nod to Porco’s parents and nothing else. At least he’s not slamming the door shut, but closes it carefully.

Porco relaxes, and when he turns to look at his parents he sees they’re both staring at him. His father’s eyes are full of tears, face twisted by fear and embarrassment: something he’s never seen before.

“Does he talk like that to all of you…?” he asks, his voice breaking pathetically, and Porco feels a strong wave of second-hand shame that makes him tear his gaze away from them: the Commander’s gone, but they still look small and powerless, even wounded, like wild animals.

“Yes,” answers Porco in a practical tone, but it’s not the right answer apparently, because his mother starts sobbing.

He doesn’t understand. It’s only normal for them to be treated like this, isn’t it? They’re Eldians after all. Who knows what both his parents had to endure as they grew up, it’s not surprising. Why does it matter when it’s Porco who is treated like this? Couldn’t they imagine it?

Porco keeps wondering what exactly provoked such a reaction in their parents, and goes to sleep on an empty stomach, an unsettling, nauseating feeling nested deep in his belly.


	6. 06 - but something stirs and something tries and starts to climb towards the light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE EPISODE WAS FIRE WASN'T IT enjoy btw

His hair’s all flat and sweaty under the helmet: he scratches at his temple, the itch irritating him to no end.

“What,” spits the girl beside him, fixing her armband as it keeps slipping down her thin arm. “What’s that face for?”

Porco clears his throat, smoke and ashes filling his lungs so he has to cough before he can speak clearly. “I’m itchy and sweaty all over,” he grumbles.

The girl laughs: he can’t remember her name now, but she’s bitter, tall, and their squad leader. She could be the Commander’s daughter for all he knows, all she lacks is a mustache and a pack of cigarettes in hand. “Yeah, big fat problem you’ve got there. Help me carry this one, he’s kinda heavy.”

He does as he’s told: the boy’s ankles are cold as he grabs them to hoist him up, the leader grabbing him from under his armpits. It takes quite a bit of shuffling, but eventually they manage to throw him in the improvised mass grave they dug that morning.

“Fuck,” she swears, grabbing her armband after throwing the boy’s corpse together with the others. “It keeps slipping.”

“Maybe that one’s tighter?” offers Porco, pointing at said boy’s armband. The leader had lost hers the day before, in battle, and snatched another from a nearby corpse to avoid trouble. Now she considers Porco’s words, then shrugs, kneeling down to remove it from the boy’s arm. Porco makes the mistake of looking at him in the eye: he doesn’t look older than seven or eight. Thankfully he had nothing to eat that morning, for fear of throwing up.

She tries it on, then clicks her tongue, throwing the armband away carelessly. “Too tight. Wait- yours looks perfect, you’re scary thin anyway, this’ll do with you. Good thing we’re both candidates, am I right?”

Porco feels like his whole face just caught fire. He hates wearing a yellow armband during field missions: he’s forbidden from wearing his red one, for obvious reasons- nobody wants the enemy to mistake him for a warrior, though Porco would rather be acknowledged as the younger brother of Marcel Galliard, the warrior, the very best there is. Though it’s not something he can say out loud, obviously, not right now. “What?”

“I’m giving you this one,” she says, kneeling down again to grab the armband she’d just thrown away, handing it to Porco. It’s speckled with someone’s blood. “Come on, I can’t let them see me without the damn thing.”

“I’m not thin,” complains Porco, but does as he’s told. For some reason, coming from her, it stings: his mother had pointed it out recently, that he should eat properly to put on some muscle and grow, but it’s something that all mothers say, isn’t it? He’s grown anyway, maybe he’s even taller than Marcel now.

He couldn’t know, it’s been three months without him now.

“Yeah, right, I can see your ribs poking out if I squint. Get a move on, blondie.”

“I’m not blond,” scoffs Porco, giving her his armband and taking the blood-stained one with a grimace.

They stop gathering corpses of all ages and genders when the sky turns bright red, a summery sunset that fills Porco’s stomach with dread for multiple reasons. He’s lost count by now, he doesn’t know what day it is and how long it’s been since he came here.

“How old are you, skinny boy?” asks the squad leader as they walk back to the campground for another sleepless night. “We’re almost finished by the way, maybe we can go back in a few days.”

Porco does his best to ignore the dried blood on his hands and elbows, dragging his boots as he mumbles in answer. “Twelve this November. What day is it?”

She snorts. “I don’t know but it’s not November yet, that much is certain. I’ll have to remember that, so I can get you a present.”

The stench of death and rotten insides is nauseating, and maybe that’s what pushes Porco to say, “I’m not big on sweets.”

Another snort, this one louder. “Thought so.”

The temperature’s colder when he comes back to Liberio, and his clothes feel larger, like they grew a full size in the span of four months.

The September sun greets him as he drops off the train, his bag slowing him down considerably. Porco curses, clicks his tongue, trying to carry his baggage properly without falling face first on the ground: then, someone takes the bag off his shoulders, and he turns around, an irritated insult ready behind his teeth-

“Oi, it’s me,” laughs Marcel, tan and grown and smiling. He’s holding Porco’s heavy bag with little to no effort, slinging it on one shoulder, grin still in place.

That’s all it takes for Porco to crumble: the tears sting as they flow down his cheeks, across the thin cut under his jaw, still fresh. His neck pops, lying at an awkward angle now that Marcel is hugging him so tight he might suffocate.

They walk back home as Marcel tells him about his latest mission: incredible amounts of glossing over what he’s actually done, for which Porco is grateful. He suspects it’s nothing different from what he himself had to do this past summer.

Marcel is visibly taken aback as both their parents hug Porco tightly, not caring one bit about the state of his uniform or how bad he stinks of blood and death- a little bit of everything, really. The answer they’ve been taught to give to their parents whenever they come back. Porco takes his time in the bathroom, washing up thoroughly, especially his hair as he scrubs his scalp viciously: as soon as he gets into bed, sleep threatens to pull down his eyelids with little to no warning, his body turning into putty on the mattress, so soft and clean and warm.

“So now it’s getting better with Mum and Dad,” observes Marcel when he walks in, finding Porco half asleep, and closes the door with the utmost care not to startle him. “I’m glad.”

“Mmm.”

“Yeah, no need to talk. Just sleep, you can tell me all about that tomorrow.”

Porco wakes up early in the morning after a rare, full night of sleep, and he’s positively famished.

He ends up eating all of his breakfast, and more: Marcel pushes his half-finished oatmeal towards him, and he digs in without even thanking him. Their father doesn’t react, though their mother scoffs slightly, making a pointed comment about Porco’s sudden increase in appetite when he’s been away from her cooking for too long.

“So,” begins Marcel later at the academy, as they sit under the tree in the middle of the courtyard, “you’ve been going on field missions, I’ve heard.”

Porco groans, feeling bloated after eating the unusually rich breakfast he’s not used to have. “Yeah, can we talk about that later, though? I’m kind of not in the mood right now.”

“Sure. What do you want to talk about?”

Sitting up straighter, Porco looks around briefly before asking, “where are the others? I haven’t seen them yet.”

Marcel clears his throat, slouching forward, resting both elbows on his knees. “About that… I got an early leave. The others are supposed to come back later today.”

“And why’s that?”

“Oh, you know. Preparations, and all that.”

Porco huffs as he scoots closer to Marcel, trying to block out any potential eavesdroppers. “Preparations for what.”

A beat of silence, then Marcel huffs as well, but his lips crack into an uncertain smile. “We’re going to Paradis. The briefing’s scheduled for tomorrow, we’re leaving on Sunday.”

Porco doesn’t answer: he stays completely still as Marcel goes on, relief apparent in the way his voice- now a bit deeper than months ago- wavers. “It’s a constant examination, you know. It’s not like getting the Titan and keeping it for the whole term- if you’re not cut out then you’ll be stripped of it, pretty simple. The fact that we’re all going means they trust us, that we’re ready… we did it.”

A small group of younger cadets runs past them, and Porco curses under his breath. “So it wasn’t set in stone, is what you’re saying? That’s why we just kept going, having classes and field exams? In case one of you turned out to be shit?”

Marcel laughs dryly at Porco’s words. “Yeah, that’s right. But we all turned out good enough, so there’s no need for that.” He looks down, then back up, staring right into Porco’s eyes and adds, his voice softer, “you can’t imagine how relieved I am.”

Porco decides he’ll worry about that later: he runs a hand through his hair, cursing again. “So I could’ve been chosen. I could’ve inherited a Titan since I’m the top graded candidate here.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t chosen.”

“Right. Fuck off, Marcel.”

“I mean,” he exclaims, grabbing Porco’s wrist tightly, staring him dead in the eye, “I’m glad you didn’t have to sacrifice yourself, as well. I’m more than enough, you need to live a long, happy life, together with Mum and Dad.”

“There’s no way that’ll happen. I’m a soldier now,” retorts Porco, though he doesn’t feel like one in the slightest. They’re both sitting down in the courtyard, two baby-faced teenagers, the only difference being that Marcel has countless people’s blood on his hands, and he’s barely turned thirteen this year. It’s not an indicator of reliability, or anything else. It’s just another confirmation of how different they’ve become, how much they’ve grown apart- how Porco could never hope to catch up with him.

“You’re still going to live longer than me,” jokes Marcel, though his grin doesn’t reach his eyes. “Enough about that- I meant to ask you, do you want to come with us tomorrow evening?”

“Us,” repeats Porco, tugging his arm out of Marcel’s grasp. “What for?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. We’re just spending the evening together before our big mission. Everyone’s dying to see you again.”

Porco scoffs. “Yeah, I bet,” he says, though he secretly hopes Pieck will smile at him, again. And Braun better stay away from him.

The remaining warriors step out of the shittiest-looking carriage, the one that stinks of death and dried, flaky blood: Porco wonders to himself if they’re the ones causing that, or if said carriage transports corpses most of the time.

They all gather around Marcel and him to greet them properly: Bertolt is impossibly tall now, and his grin threatens to split his face in two as he hugs Porco with energy. Annie offers him a tired, clipped smile, while Zeke and Pieck both wave at him but keep their distance; Porco can’t help but notice how Zeke is wearing glasses now, how much he looks like a proper man, and the way Pieck seems to gravitate around him without sparing him a single glance. She’s probably finished growing, slightly taller than Porco remembers, her hair long and wavy as always, not looking out of place at Zeke’s side now that she’s growing into a woman, too.

Porco does his best not to feel too small and insignificant, now. For some reason he remembers the squad leader on his latest mission, and how she’d pointed out how thin he is- scary thin, she’s said. None of them is scary thin, it’s just him.

He almost forgot about Braun: he’s the last one to go up to him, holding a hand up in sign of greeting- something Porco didn’t expect. He mirrors him, echoing his obvious discomfort: none of them know what to do with themselves, now that they’re facing each other. If possible, Braun too has grown in these past months: his face is smaller, he definitely lost the baby fat that clung to his body with stubbornness, and he’s only a bit shorter than Porco, the height difference between them now insignificant.

What with them being visibly tired from the mission and the trip back home, their meeting is cut short, since they’re also supposed to show up early in the morning for the briefing with Commander Magath.

On the way back home, Porco tries with all he’s got to think of Pieck, how pretty she is; but his mind keeps drifting to Zeke, how deep his voice is now, like Porco’s father- and for some reason the way Braun’s features are starting to show up on his former round face, a hint of cheekbones, high just like his mother’s, Porco’s seen her once and they’ve got the same eyes, it’s uncanny.

He gives up after tossing and turning in bed all night long. He should really eat less in the morning.

Porco feels bloated again when he wakes up, and skips breakfast- he won’t tell his parents or Marcel that he threw up, it’s only natural after all, he ate like a pig yesterday. He brushes his teeth quickly and he’s ready.

For lack of a proper window of time, the briefing takes place pretty early, a good ten minutes before the potential candidates are supposed to show up for morning classes. Porco stays there, in the back, another wave of nausea twisting the insides of his stomach as Commander Magath pulls up a detailed map of Paradis Island, hanging it to the wall. He can see Marcel’s shoulders going rigid from where he is.

The Commander goes into detail as he explains what they’ll have to do- “just like we practiced,” he repeats every now and then, so this isn’t new for them. They all nod, standing in line, back straight, and Porco swallows thickly.

“Sorry, Commander,” interrupts Zeke then, the baritone of his voice pleasant to Porco’s ears, to the point it kind of soothes him. “But there’s no mention of Pieck’s Titan in this plan, or mine.”

Commander Magath inhales, slowly, then exhales. “We decided against that in our latest meeting. Tension’s rising in the Middle East. The Beast and Cart Titan are needed at home to deter enemy nations: you will not participate in this mission.”

Porco doesn’t miss the slight shiver in Zeke’s shoulders. This is something he didn’t expect, clearly, and judging from his body language he’s disappointed for being left out- Porco understands that feeling.

“And so, the plan to retake the Founder Titan will be carried out by the Jaw, Armored, Colossal and Female Titans.”

A stark difference in commander Magath’s voice- fondness, maybe?, pipes up as he calls their individual names, “Marcel, Bertolt, Annie, Reiner… we leave this to you.”

Porco hangs his head, shoulders shrinking, nausea rippling through his body stronger than before- he’s almost giving into it, allowing it to wash over him, the feeling of being weak, the absolute weakest in their group, but his head snaps up as he hears Braun talking with Bertolt, walking right past him, as if they didn’t even see him, because he’s not worthy-

And he sees red.

His arm snaps forward before he can stop it, Braun notices him, eyes widening at the way Porco is clenching his jaw: he blocks Braun with his back against the wall, planting a hand to the side of his head and outright shouting, “it doesn’t make sense!”, as Bertolt tries to put himself between them, deciding against it when Porco resumes his barrage of words, adding, “you’re at the bottom of the group! Why would they pick you?!”

Before Braun can even try to open his mouth, Porco hears Marcel rushing towards them, calling for him, and says, slamming his hand on the wall again, “what did you do to get picked!?”

Praise and acknowledgment are what really fuel one’s self-esteem, Porco knows it too well: and yet he’s surprised, even shocked, when Braun takes it in stride and shoots back, soft childish features hardened by teenage-like venomous sarcasm, “doesn’t this just mean it was you at the bottom… Pokko?”

Pokko.

“You fucking-”

A hand grabs his wrist before he can punch Braun’s nose back into his skull: Marcel’s voice calls for him, somewhere far away probably, he can’t hear it now, blood pumping too fast right behind his ears.

“Are you disobeying the army’s orders?” asks Marcel, in the calmest, coldest voice he’s ever used with his own brother: he must be disappointed, thinks Porco, and he tears himself away from Braun, turning around sharply before anyone except Marcel can see him tearing up, though there’s nothing he can do for how hard he’s shaking all over.

He can hear Marcel apologising to Braun for whatever it is he’s done, then he escorts him outside, in the courtyard, and doesn’t say anything else to him until it’s time to go home for lunch, making the most out of their early leave.

Despite what happened that morning, no one mentions Porco’s outburst when they all gather in the main square, later in the afternoon- no one except Pieck, and Porco averts his gaze to hide his blushing cheeks when she whispers to him, “you should probably go talk to him or something, you know.”

Porco steadies his breathing as they walk together, talking about nothing in particular, his gaze dead set on Braun’s back. He’s not saying anything, keeping quiet and looking around aimlessly, until they come to a stop to decide where to go next. Taking a few, hesitant steps, Porco inhales deeply before clearing his throat, catching Braun’s attention: though he’s not looking away from the statue in the middle of the square.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” grunts Porco, forcing his voice to go lower than he normally speaks. Braun doesn’t seem to register his words, at first, but then shrugs, eyes never leaving the bronze statue.

“Sorry about that, too,” he murmurs eventually.

“Yeah.”

Breaking the ice is difficult when they haven’t had a proper conversation in years: Porco rolls his neck, not even trying to hide his discomfort, then tries speaking up. “You think he really existed?”

“Huh?”

Porco lifts his chin towards the statue, his ears getting warmer as he spies, out of the corner of his eye, Braun glancing at him furtively, then back at the statue. “Helos, the Marleyan hero, whoever he was.”

“Why do you care?” scoffs Braun, like he’s taking it personally. He walks off towards the others, stopping at Bertolt’s side, and Porco ignores the bitter taste in his mouth as he does the same, walking side by side with Pieck as she chats with Annie, Marcel leading the group.

Yeah, he’s right- what does he care? He only tried to make up with him because Pieck asked him to, and she’s pretty, her whispered voice makes Porco blush for some reason, it’s only natural that he would at least try. But now she doesn’t seem to care about his failure, too busy trying to talk Annie out of buying sweets since they’ve got to wake up early tomorrow.

Porco lags behind as they walk, sit, laugh, walk again, rinse and repeat: he’s never felt this out of place before, Marcel too busy entertaining Bertolt and Braun with his jokes, Annie scoffing at his bad sense of humour, and Pieck watching it all quietly, a gentle smile on her face.

He can’t help it: he stares at her, again, focusing on her hair, her eyelashes, the shape of her nose. Porco swallows, setting both hands down on the ground, and realizes that if he just moved his right hand a bit further he could cover her left one, maybe squeeze it, just like she did that one time.

The thought should have made him blush, but maybe it can’t happen everytime. Porco likes her, he’d decided that long ago, and relief washes over him as he thinks of all the time he’s got to work up the courage to tell her, maybe a few years from now, when he’ll be older and his voice deeper just like Zeke’s. One day he will be respected, then she’ll just have to reciprocate him- it’s how it works, he’s pretty sure of that.

Pieck rolls her neck and Porco looks away, trying to catch his breath: she almost caught him staring, and there’s no telling what would have happened then.

“I’m going,” announces Braun then, out of the blue, and everyone falls silent: he stands up, wringing his hands together, then adds quietly, “I’m not feeling very well, so… maybe it’s better if I go home.”

Annie nods, though she raises her eyebrows, and says, “yeah, you do that. We don’t want you puking all the way to the island.”

Despite the tension, Braun snorts, a lopsided grin stretching on his face: Porco blinks, entranced by the shape of his lips as he shoots back, “at least I’m not the one who gets sick on a train.”

Marcel breaks up the possible fight as soon as Annie starts standing up, though Pieck is quicker, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her back down, laughing openly: Porco now stares at her, insistently, his hand still a few inches away from hers- but is stopped by Pieck herself as she turns around and says, loudly, “you should walk him home, it’s not safe to wander on your own when you’re an Eldian, right Pokko?”

General laughter erupts- even Annie, of all people, giggles. Porco blushes furiously, tearing his hand away from the ground and standing up with a grimace: though, he notices, Braun isn’t laughing at him.

“Alright,” he concedes, “but don’t go off somewhere until I’ve come back.”

“You are not coming back, like, at all,” interjects Marcel, laughter laced in his voice, “you’re going home and getting into bed at a reasonable hour.”

“Yes, Mum,” parrots Porco, rolling his eyes, and greets them with a raised hand- flipping Marcel off, too- before walking away together with Braun, in silence.

The streets are growing quieter, slowly: lights turned off, doors closing, people yawning as they walk back home. Curfew’s drawing near, and there’s a certain urgency in Porco’s step, knowing they’re not supposed to stay out too late.

“Want to go see something before we get home?” asks Porco, biting down on his lower lip as he waits for an answer.

“…not particularly, no.”

“Thought so,” scoffs Porco, kicking a stray pebble on his path. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

Braun swallows audibly before answering, “yeah,” his raspy voice catching in his throat.

At some point, they pass the statue of Helos, barely lit by the moonlight, blending in the dark of the night sky. Porco stops in front of it, and Braun does the same, so they stay there for a bit, looking up at the heroic figure driving his spear into the Devil’s maw.

Braun’s mouth snaps open- then, closes again. Porco snorts, his eyebrows shooting up as Braun scratches at the side of his head, visibly embarrassed. “No, it’s nothing-”

“Come on, spit it out, whatever it is.”

“Right. I’ve always wanted to be like that,” he confesses, lifting his chin up towards the statue. “Ever since I was little.”

Porco hides a smirk, scratching at an imaginary itch on his cheek. “You’re not Marleyan, though. There’s no way you can become their hero.”

“I know,” pouts Braun, though he’s still staring at it, “but he proved himself, didn’t he? That’s enough.”

“Why do you want that? Prove yourself to who? Your mum loves you to bits,” snorts Porco, not believing how much they’re talking, after so long. It leaves a weird aftertaste in his mouth.

Before Braun answers, he starts shifting his body weight side to side, then stops, for no reason. “To everyone. Do you think I can do it?”

“You got your Titan, didn’t you? That’s a start.”

Braun’s supposed to answer, maybe even thank him, Porco will gladly accept a disapproving click of the tongue, too: but there’s no reaction, and when he turns to look at him he’s staring back at Porco, his gaze unreadable, serious. Almost solemn.

They’re standing closer than Porco thought they were. If he shifted any further, their hands would be touching- the thought sets his belly on fire, for some reason.

He’s not sure what it is, really: Braun looks nothing like the rectangle-shaped kid that gave him an apple for lunch, instead of taking it home to his mum. Almost as tall as him, now, his hair longer, framing his face in a more flattering way than before, his cheekbones barely jutting out- he’s growing into a young boy, his body abandoning the lumpy shape Porco’s always associated with him, and he’s not scary thin, not too fat, somewhere in the middle, where nobody will worry enough.

It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Porco wonders who’s blushing harder now, and for what reason. Time seems to slow down as they stare each other down, eye to eye, a million complicated thoughts pounding in their heads.

Maybe he wants him to hold his hand?

“We should go,” murmurs Braun after what feels like minutes, stretching out into hours, “it’s almost curfew.”

Porco finds, as his heart starts beating faster, that he doesn’t want to.

“…yeah, we should,” he concedes then, both of them averting their gaze as they turn around, walking back to the internment zone, a different kind of silence sitting in the small space between their shoulders.

The parade starts from the gate, crossing the main street of the internment zone, bringing the four warriors to the port.

They’re granted a few minutes to step off the carriage and say their goodbyes: Porco stands near his mother, awkwardly, as his father hugs Marcel tight, hiding his face in the crook of his neck.

“You’re going to carry out your duty,” says their mother, kneeling down to hold Marcel’s hand, wiping away a tear that slides down his cheek, undisturbed. “We’re so proud of you, Marcel.”

He’s been deadly silent all morning, nothing wrong with that: but Porco never thought he’d be this uptight, not Marcel.

When their parents step aside, Porco clears his throat, trying to think of something decent to say, because who knows when he’ll see his brother again- but Marcel anticipates him, rushing up to him and hugging him so tightly that Porco actually coughs.

“Marcel-”

“I’m coming back, I swear,” he murmurs, so low that only Porco can hear him, probably, “as soon as I can, I’ll come back.”

Porco hugs him back, just as tight. “Yeah. I’ll be waiting,” he murmurs back, but it’s not what he wanted to say- now he forgot. It’s too much, there’s no time for that, and probably no way to put it into words.

They part in silence, as Marcel turns around, following Bertolt, Annie and Braun on the ship, as the whole of Liberio sends off the four chosen warriors. For whatever reason, Porco thinks back to when he was little, and Marcel would hold his hand, helping him to fall asleep, singing little meaningless lullabies with his shrill voice and whistling every few words because of his missing teeth; then he remembers a bunch of times in which he drove him mad, made him angry, and he realizes- he’ll miss all of that, the whole package.

He loves him dearly, and he misses him already. That’s what he had to say.

“I’ll tell him when he comes back,” he whispers to himself, as he raises his hand higher than anyone else, waving goodbye, until his shoulder and back start aching and the ship disappears at the horizon, its shape distorted by the tears that start filling Porco’s eyes.

However long it takes, he’ll wait for him, for the day everyone will come back safe and sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> end of "part 1"! we're finally here  
> next chapter will drop next weekend, since they're getting longer and all  
> hope you enjoyed! thank you so much <3


	7. 07 - strangers passing in the street, by chance two separate glances meet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here starts part 2: mind the rating and the additional tags  
> i'll be here wearing a face mask and sipping my tea if you need anything  
> :*

“Say that again,” growls Porco, pushing the muzzle of his rifle harder on the soldier’s neck.

He looks up, blank-faced, and glares at Porco: his eye is missing, just like most of his left arm, but he’s still got energy to fling insults at him. It’s very irritating, and Porco shoves the tip of the rifle deeper in his neck, as if he wanted to mark the dirty, bloody skin there.

“Not answering, are we,” he barks then, “are you pissing your pants? I know I wouldn’t. Are you?”

Despite Porco’s taunts, the soldier still refuses to repeat what he just said: eventually, one loses their patience, and it happens very often during missions.

That’s why Porco waits no more and pulls the trigger: the poor hold he has on the rifle causes a heavier recoil than what’s ideal, and Porco grunts in pain as his arm is pushed backwards, his already injured shoulder cracking loudly. The soldier’s neck explodes, blood splattering all around, his jaw snapping open and falling to the side, the skin around his lips tearing apart: Porco clicks his tongue in annoyance, throwing the rifle aside and walking away from the corpse, wincing at the sharp pain that throbs all across his shoulder-blade and arm.

“Fuckface,” he seethes, kicking one of the corpse’s legs as it makes him stumble, then turns around and walks leisurely out of the fort. He avoids the dead bodies scattered here and there, as other soldiers with white armbands gather in the middle of the main room, where the stench of blood is heavier.

“Galliard, what the hell happened to your arm?” barks the captain, stomping forward until he’s face to face with him- and he has to look up, since Porco’s grown a lot taller in the last few years.

“Nothing, sir,” he answers, cringing as the captain grabs his elbow and yanks, hard, to assess the damage.

“You stupid idiot, it’s probably broken! Go find a medic or something, fast!”

Porco rolls his eyes and does as he’s told, pointedly ignoring the captain as he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘shitty good-for-nothing Eldian’, and walks into the back room of the fort, where the wounded are now being treated. There’s only a handful of nurses here, most of them out on the front lines, tasked with the impossible, and he’s met with a general look of disdain as he walks in.

“Another? Come here, I’ll take a quick look,” orders the head nurse, a woman who appears to be well in her forties. She tugs at Porco’s arm, much like the captain just did, but ignores Porco’s soft curse as she feels up his bicep and shoulder, clicking her tongue after assessing the situation.

“Can you tell me your name, age, rank, whatever? So I know your brain is still where it’s supposed to be,” she drones, words falling automatically out of the mouth, who knows how many times she’s had to say them today.

“Porco Galliard, sixteen, warrior candidate, _fuck_ \- seventeen this November,” he cringes, his shoulder feeling weirdly out of place all of a sudden. He almost gags as the head nurse does a weird, sharp maneuver that makes it pop back in place.

“Maria, give me a piece of cloth, I’ve got a fracture here,” she barks, without turning: a younger girl runs at Porco’s side, her cheeks red as she pants audibly. She shoves the cloth in the nurse’s arms, throws a quick glance at Porco’s armband then runs away again, trying to assist multiple patients at once.

“Does this look like a cloth to you?” grunts the head nurse, holding the rag up to Porco’s face, and he notices the dried blood on it, in multiple places even. “You should’ve hidden your armband when you came in here, you idiot.”

Porco looks around as he snorts, noticing how almost all the nurses are Marleyans, save for the head nurse herself, who sports a white armband on her dirty uniform. “At least you can order them around,” he jokes, and she grins as she motions for Porco to bend his arm at the elbow.

“Yeah, except I can’t call them names. Fat lot of good, that does.”

Between a grimace and the other, Porco smirks. “Try to do that under your breath.”

“Y’know what they say about Marleyans, lad- they’ve got a full set of ears up their arses, even.”

Porco would laugh harder if his shoulder didn’t hurt this bad.

The trip back home is torturous: Porco keeps being shoved left and right as the train travels on old, bumpy rails. His whole arm hurts, and at some point he had to change the cloth to hold it up properly, though his own first aid ministrations are pretty approximative. When they step off the carriage after a full day of travel, he fears his arm is in even worse shape than it was back at the fort.

Mum is there to welcome him as he steps into the internment zone: she gasps loudly as she sees Porco’s arm all bandaged up, and Porco wishes she wouldn’t make such a scene: he reaches for the red armband she’s holding, instead, sick and tired of the yellow one he wears on the battlefield.

“Come on Mum, the armband,” he sighs, as she cups Porco’s face in her hands, almost having to stand on her toes to do that.

“What happened to you, Porco? Are you hurt elsewhere?” she asks, a sob almost bursting out of her throat, but helps him to put on the armband anyway. He shrugs with his healthy shoulder, refusing to give any explanation before they get home.

“How’s Dad,” he grunts, immediately feeling better when Mum takes the yellow armband away from his sight.

“He’s resting, he didn’t feel like coming… his leg is giving him trouble again.”

He’d fallen off a stool in his workshop one day, balancing on it to do some needed maintenance works on the ceiling: he keeps working in the mornings even with his injury, though that means he’s constantly pissed off most of the time and hardly ever leaves his bed in the afternoon, nowadays. Not to mention that he refuses with all his might to be seen on crutches: that’d be dishonorable.

“Fine then,” grumbles Porco, wishing he could hold his red armband with his other hand. It’s the only thing he can latch upon when thinking of his brother, lately.

In a few months it’ll be five years since he left for Paradis. If Porco thinks about it too much, he feels like throwing up.

They put him on extended leave, as expected: a full month and a half of forced rest, then he will be able to go back to the battlefield. Porco rolls his eyes as Mum chides him for what feels like the thirteenth time that day, saying that he’d been reckless, that they couldn’t afford to put one of their best soldiers on leave right when war is about to break with the Mid-East Allied Forces.

“I’m hardly the best,” retorts Porco, feeling particularly callous. He can’t help but think that he should’ve let that fight go, perhaps handled the rifle more properly to avoid this. But then again, that soldier deserved it- he can force himself to ignore it when it’s his Marleyan superiors, somehow, but when it’s other people who spit on him for who he is…

He’d like to tell them, as he shoots them in the head, brutalizes their corpses, raids their forts: he’d love to shout in their faces that those Eldians they despise so much are about to free the world from impending disaster. Porco would tell them that his brother’s been fighting on that island for years, trying to retrieve the last two Titans so that the Eldians of Paradis will no longer be a menace- that will surely bring them comfort, right? It’s what they all want. Porco wishes he could genuinely, fully believe that, and live a simple life in blissful ignorance.

“News?” he groans one morning, as Mum comes into his room to open the window and let some fresh air in: stretching his healthy arm he shifts on his bed, his backside numb after sitting on it for so many hours. Sleeping in such a position is not comfortable, but it’ll help his arm heal faster.

Mum’s shoulders start sagging, as they always do before she says, “still nothing,” in a tiny, defeated voice that sometimes sounds like Marcel’s, back when he was a child.

Porco asks that question the next day as well, and the day after that, and again, until he’s deemed healthy enough to leave his house.

But he still asks when he wakes up in the morning, after that. He never misses one day.

Porco bites his lower lip to avoid grinning too hard, when Pieck spots him and waves.

“Look who’s back,” she almost sings, resting a hand on his healthy shoulder, and looking up at him: Pieck is as pretty as ever, her eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiles. Porco is much taller than her now, and if they ever hugged she could rest her head on his chest, thanks to their height difference. The thought torments him more often than not, especially at night when he has trouble falling asleep.

“Hey,” he snorts in embarrassment, as Pieck snorts back, mocking him. She links arms with him as they walk off together, Porco not offering to carry her bag because of his healing shoulder, and he barely contains a frown at the thought.

“I heard they put you on extended leave,” she pipes up, and Porco has to tear his gaze away from her, before she notices.

“Yeah, I got the brilliant idea to fuck up my shoulder.”

“How did you do that anyway? Got into a fistfight?”

Porco scoffs at her words, as Pieck tugs him towards her, their arms still linked, bumping into each other. She mocks him then, calling him a “bad boy”, and he forces himself not to blush too hard.

“Nothing of the sort,” he lies, and if Pieck sees right through it, she has the decency to keep quiet.

“Alright, so. Are you up for drinks tonight?”

“What- when did you even start drinking?” grins Porco, pushing to the back of his mind the thought of a very drunk, very uninhibited Pieck. “And you call me a bad boy when you’re the one who asks me to get pissed, even if I’m underage.”

Pieck shrugs nonchalantly. “Age never stopped anyone. And you’ll be a man soon, what’s the difference if you start a bunch of months in advance? Better get used to it.”

He knows Pieck is joking around, but Porco still deflates a bit after hearing that- he’s a man already, isn’t he? It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, so much that he answers curtly at Pieck’s subsequent jokes and questions, and feels even more wounded when she doesn’t pick up on his sudden bad mood.

Yeah, maybe he’s not a man to her if her standard is Zeke. Of course he’d get compared to someone much more advantaged than him, it’s what his whole life is about, isn’t it.

Pieck thanks him for bringing her home, as always, and does it with such a sweet smile that Porco can’t help but crack a small grin at that. When she closes the door behind her, Porco lingers there, daydreaming for a few seconds, before turning around to walk back home, bitterness still curled up beneath his tongue.

Commander Magath walks around the corner, and Porco salutes him, wincing slightly at the faint burst of pain shooting up his mostly healed shoulder.

“At ease,” snorts the Commander, leaning with his back to the wall next to Porco, who’d been watching the new potential candidates on their morning run in the courtyard. “It’s starting to get on my damn nerves, this salute business. You all look like someone shoved a lightning bolt up your arses.”

Porco snorts loudly at the Commander’s words, massaging his injured shoulder: it’s been a month and a few days, and he’s ditched the bandage a while ago, though he’s still on leave to make sure he’s healed properly. Commander Magath hums, fishing a lighter from his pocket and throwing a cigarette between his lips with expertise, cupping it with a hand as he lights it up, all under Porco’s attentive gaze.

“Want a drag?” he asks, smoke puffing out of his chapped lips.

“Don’t think so, I never tried, Commander,” refuses Porco, though he would really like one. He’s always stared at the Commander whenever he smoked, ever since he was little, trying to explain to himself what someone could possibly get from smoking, except rotten lungs and who knows what else.

“Yeah, fuck smoking,” he rasps, inhaling deeply, the tip of the cigarette lighting up as he sucks the poison in. “It’s no good for you.”

As Porco laughs again, the Commander turns to glare at him, and says, curtly, “when are you growing up, Porco? Looks like you’re having the time of your life whenever I curse.”

“You’ve been cursing ever since I first met you, Commander, with all due respect,” explains Porco, though his ears start getting a bit warm, and the Commander must notice it because he’s the one who snorts, now. “It’s funny.”

“Whatever suits you,” he concedes, taking another drag, as Porco watches, hypnotized.

The newest candidates are doing fine: Porco spots a few of them stopping to catch their breath, but the vast majority keeps running, despite the visible exhaustion. Commander Magath barks at them to keep going, and all their little legs start going faster at that, while Porco leans back and grins, remembering when he was a candidate himself, with both fondness and bitterness laced tightly at the back of his throat.

“Hear this. See that girl? The one in the lead?” grunts the Commander, lifting his chin, and Porco follows his gaze. He spots the little girl immediately, most of her hair tied up in a high ponytail bouncing around relentlessly as she keeps up with the older kids.

“Who’s that?”

“Reiner Braun’s little cousin,” laughs Commander Magath, and Porco’s lips part slightly at those words, of their own accord. “If she’s half as stoic as he is then we’re in for a treat.”

Resting the back of his head against the wall, Porco sighs, looking somewhere in the distance, trying his best to avoid staring at the small girl running like her life depends on it. It’s bad enough when other people bring him up out of the blue, unconsciously reminding Porco of those times when he was the dead last of their group; he doesn’t think he can handle even the Commander talking about him, especially when it was always clear that all of his praise towards Porco came from Braun’s absence. When he was still here, Porco meant nothing to his eyes, to the Marleyan military, even to his parents. No one should have been better than him, but still…

“Yeah, alright. About that drag…”

Commander Magath makes a face, as he tosses the cigarette butt on the ground, stomping on it with his boot. “What about it?”

“Is the offer still up? I want to try.”

Before walking away, the Commander offers Porco a brisk hint of a smirk, something that probably got all the girls swooning back in his day, then says, “go buy your own cigarettes,” and he’s off to torment the new candidates.

“Nice beard you’ve got there.”

Zeke wheezes a laugh, then resumes blowing on his hot cup of coffee. His glasses are fogging up, and Porco cringes as he tries to sip- it’s still too hot, so he curses, puts the cup down, removes his glasses to clean them, and resumes blowing on it until it cools down. It’s a well known ritual between the three of them that never fails to elicit giggles and laughs.

“I know, right? There goes your stereotype, blond people can in fact grow proper beards,” he says, smugness stirring over his deep voice. Porco’s has gotten deeper, too, but it’s nothing like Zeke’s; his own sounds more boyish, but maybe it could go lower, sometime in the future. He’s only seventeen after all.

The small gathering in Zeke’s office consists of stilted small talk, thanks to the Marleyan officers that are listening in- Pieck made that very clear before they even got in there, and also because Porco hasn’t been seeing a lot of Zeke lately. He’s been rising steadily through the ranks, gaining the trust and admiration of the army, and as a result he rarely gets a few days of leave per month.

Even with that, Pieck’s favoritism towards Zeke hasn’t been impacted at all, and Porco finds himself biting his tongue more than once, wishing she would talk so openly with him as well. Maybe it’s a Titan thing he can’t understand.

“So, stunning beard aside,” coughs Zeke, setting his still too hot coffee aside, “things are getting heated with the newly formed Allied Forces, we all know that. Commander Magath is thinking of taking the matter in his own hands, and wants to send all of us warriors to the front line.”

Pieck shifts uncomfortably on the chair: she’s mentioned a few times to Porco that after long periods of staying in Titan form she finds it more comfortable to walk on all fours, and he still thinks she’s taking the piss most of the time. He’s never seen any of them turn into Titans, so he doesn’t know what to imagine or expect when it’ll finally happen. “So does this mean that the others are coming back from Paradis?”

At Pieck’s question, Porco tries his best not to perk up too much. Maybe they have established contact with them?

“I’m leaving for the island tomorrow, so I can assess the situation. Among other things,” answers Zeke, and his mouth twitches, like he just thought of something uncomfortable. Porco sighs, feeling small and useless now that they’re talking strategies and such.

“But you just came back.”

Zeke brushes it off with a wide grin that shows his teeth. “No worries, I can always get a longer leave later down the road. Also, Porco… you’ll come with us, as soon as war breaks out.”

A beat of silence, and only after that, Porco realizes he should probably react out loud. “What,” he deadpans, staring at Zeke as he takes a tentative sip, smiles to himself, then digs in, his coffee finally cool enough to drink.

On the battlefield with them? With Titans? Porco has literally no idea how that could work, and what he could be useful for. He’s not a remarkable shooter by any means, he can hold his own in close combat but that’s pretty much it. “Who suggested that,” he insists, his eyebrows drawn together, and a quick stolen glance at Pieck confirms that she’s surprised by Zeke’s announcement as well. She looks like she just heard the most absurd proposal ever, and it wounds Porco, to the point he has to ignore her with a grimace: he’ll deal with those feelings later.

“Commander Magath’s orders. He wants you by his side, I don’t know the reason. You should probably ask him yourself,” explains Zeke, before he gulps down the last of his coffee.

And that’s exactly what he wants to do: as soon as he gets out of this room, he’s going to track him down and question everything. He’s just healed from a fractured shoulder, for fuck’s sake- and that was his fault entirely, there’s no way to predict how hard he can mess up on a battlefield swarming with Titans.

They leave Zeke on his own, walking out of the door in silence. Porco’s step is faster, so he leaves Pieck behind, not bothering with her until she scoots forward, and her hair bobs up and down so endearingly that Porco has to clear his throat and glance away from her to make sure he’s still sulking when she looks at him.

“Come on, you’ll do great,” she wheezes, and Porco slows down, hearing the strain in her voice and feeling bad for ignoring her. “You won’t be alone, Commander Magath will watch your back.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem. He’s going to kick my arse if I act up, and I always do that,” snorts Porco. He knows he’s being childish, complaining out loud as if Pieck were his mum, and not a friend- or something more, like he wishes… and he doesn’t want her to see this side of him. He’s sure that Zeke never acts like this around her, that’s why she prefers him.

“I can’t know that, I’ve never been on the battlefield with you before,” observes Pieck, her voice dipping lower in volume as she catches her breath. She’s not comforting him, and Porco doesn’t know if he should appreciate it or not. “But there’s always a first time for everything. It’s going to be fine as long as you do what you’re told.”

Porco finds himself afraid of what Pieck could say, if he dared to complain again: so he nods, a curt snap of his neck, and keeps all his worries to himself not to compromise things further between them. It’s better if he doesn’t question it with the Commander, then. He’s already doomed enough as it is.

A week after Zeke left for Paradis, Porco tells his parents about the impending mission: Mum stops eating, sets down her fork and rubs both hands on her face, inhaling deeply. Dad keeps digging in as if Porco just made a remark on tomorrow’s weather and nothing more.

“It’s only normal,” murmurs Porco, picking at his salad. He wishes Mum cooked some chicken instead. “I’m a soldier, war is about to break… of course they’re sending me to the front line.”

“Yes, I know, but your shoulder,” she sighs, her eye bags so prominent that Porco is taken aback at first. He’s been spotting small differences in his parents’ faces every single time he comes back after a mission, but this time they seem to dig deeper in their skin- they’re aging, he knows, but it’s hard to stomach, especially with how thin Dad is getting of late.

And all Mum can think about is Porco and his fucked up shoulder.

“It’s fine now,” he says, rolling his eyes, and it’s true: of course it still acts up, occasionally, but nothing that a good stretching session can’t fix. “It’s the Commander’s orders anyway. I can’t refuse that.”

Dad’s finished eating: his fork and knife clink loudly on the plate as he drops them, without bothering to set them down properly. “When are you leaving then?” he asks, mouth still full of salad and bread, and Mum merely clears her throat instead of correcting his bad manners. She busies herself by gathering the dishes, standing up with a small grunt to carry them to the sink.

“Could be any day now. I don’t know the details yet,” he lies. No need to burden them too much, for now.

Dad’s spark of interest wanes just like that. Porco suspects he’d rather feign disinterest than admit he simply doesn’t know how to handle him: he’s always been difficult ever since he was little, he knows, but he can’t help the bitterness he feels when he thinks that Dad stopped trying to be his father as soon as Porco grew up so much that he couldn’t beat him anymore.

“Eat up your salad, Porco,” says Mum, placing a hand on Porco’s healthier shoulder, as she sets her leftover bread down near his glass of water. “You need to grow stronger.”

That’s her new way to say that he’s too thin for being a soldier. Porco bites down on his lower lip, but does as he’s told: he’s the last one to get up, both Mum and Dad already in bed by the time he’s done the dishes.

They’ve rearranged his bedroom in the last couple of years, getting Porco a new bed because of his latest growth spurt. Now his stuff takes up more than half of the room, Marcel’s belongings either stuffed in various boxes or pushed aside on his childhood bed. Porco closes the door behind him out of habit, strips and flops down on his bed, not bothering with tugging down the sheets.

After a few minutes of simply resting on the mattress, he shifts around, wincing as his shoulder pops ominously. He massages it slowly, his eyes closed as if he could fall asleep faster by doing that, though memories of war come creeping at the back of his mind almost immediately. He’s been sleeping like shit ever since he’s started having a more active role on missions, especially after his first kill, back when he was fourteen. He remembers because it happened on Mum’s birthday.

Eventually, sleepiness abandons him. He lies in bed awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering, thinking, fantasizing.

There’s a few seconds of hesitation first, but eventually he sighs, surrendering to it: he steals a glance down his body, lifting his hips so he can tug his pants down and stare at himself with a grimace. It hardly ever works, but maybe this time it could help.

Before even trying to do something, he thinks of whatever he can to get in the mood- Pieck’s smile, her hair, her eyes crinkling at the corners when she laughs, the cute way she sneezes, her being the perfect height for Porco to hug and inhale the amazing smell of her hair; he knows she smells good, it’s a given.

Still nothing: he grimaces even harder, trying to find something else, anything, that could help setting things in motion. Then it comes to him, and he parts his lips, he remembers when Pieck asked him to get something to drink, and how he’d had the sudden thought of dealing with a laughing, inebriated Pieck and how she would surely give Porco more of her time in such a state- and maybe not only her time, just maybe. Though he can’t imagine anything else past that, a few giggles, a funny look in her eye, then nothing. His mind simply can’t go further than this.

He wonders if anyone else thinks about Pieck like this: maybe Zeke succeeds. Porco still isn’t used to see him with a beard, but he has to admit it fits his face, and somehow his deep, charming voice, too-

Porco squeezes his eyes shut, hard, then tucks himself back in his pants and rolls to the side, clenching his fists, stopping his mind dead in its tracks.

When he manages to fall asleep it’s already too late. He’ll try to sneak a quick nap in the afternoon, if he can.

It happens overnight.

Porco wakes up to Commander Magath’s voice, and it sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen. He doesn’t like it: he almost didn’t recognize him without all the barking and such. It’s ominous, in a way.

A weird, foreboding feeling fills up his stomach, so he gets out of bed, his shoulder creaking slightly, and gets dressed. As he opens the door he can hear the Commander fall silent, and when he steps in the kitchen he doesn’t even salute him: Commander Magath is frowning, his bloodshot eyes focus on Porco as he deflates visibly, shoulders sagging.

“Saves me the trouble of coming around later,” he mumbles, and Porco’s heartbeat starts speeding up. He doesn’t like this one bit.

“Commander… what happened then?” asks Dad, his voice higher than usual, Mum grabbing his arm and holding him tightly. Commander Magath stares at them, both supporting each other as if they could fall down any moment, and had to physically help each other to stand. He sighs, again, averting his eyes. He looks like he’s in pain.

“A boat came back tonight, from Paradis,” he explains, and Porco’s eyes widen beyond his control. “How am I supposed to even say this shit…”

“Did something happen to Marcel?” asks Mum, her voice wavering pathetically as she steps forward, “is our son alright? Is he hurt?”

Nothing, that’s what happened. Simply nothing.

There’s no way it could happen today, of all days: everything was normal yesterday, nothing out of the ordinary, Porco ate his dinner, and sure, he had some trouble falling asleep, but he would have known if something went wrong. These things only happen after they’ve been predicted, it’s only logical. Nothing bad can happen on such short notice. It’s obvious, it’s how things work.

Commander Magath is shivering, his face so pale that he looks like a ghost. His lips snap open, against his own will, and when he speaks his voice crumbles- just like everything else, everything breaks, falls apart.

“Marcel Galliard was attacked and eaten by a mindless Titan. The remaining warriors managed to bring back the person who inherited his Jaw. Porco will have to inherit it in turn, or you will all be stripped of the title of honorary Marleyans.”


	8. 08 - and i am you and what i see is me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> earlier than i first intended but hey no one's complaining i guess  
> enjoy <3

Silence.

Then, cacophony.

Mum is wailing, now fallen down on her knees. Dad is standing still like a statue. Commander Magath is massaging his eyes, head hanging low.

It goes on for quite some time, impossible to tell how long exactly. Mum is crying so hard her whole body shakes, her breathing ragged, sobs clawing their way out of her throat. Dad looks like a corpse, standing upright, pale and unmoving, stupid, useless.

Now Commander Magath is taking a few steps. His mouth is weird, he looks disgusted, but his eyes are shiny. He stops in front of Porco, takes a deep breath, then puts a hand on his healthy shoulder.

His lips move, but he can’t hear a sound. His heartbeat is louder. Porco can only hear Mum crying her heart out.

The Commander shakes him gently, and it feels like Porco’s ears are full of water, sloshing with rage beneath his skull, washing away all his thoughts and feelings. His eyes are throbbing, his legs numb.

“Porco,” he tries again, “you need to come with me as soon as you’re ready. We can’t waste a second.”

Now that he’s heard his orders, Porco walks off to fetch his boots, slips them on, and steps before the Commander, standing there just like he was doing a few seconds before. Commander Magath sighs, rubbing at his eyes, again, then turns around and kneels down to Mum’s eye level. Dad’s dropped down on his knees, too, at some point.

He says something to them, softly, then stands back up. Porco can hear Mum call his name as he follows him outside, but he doesn’t think much of it, his eyes set on the Commander’s shoulders, straight and rigid in his uniform.

Dawn is breaking right this moment: there’s no one in the streets as they walk to the gate, out of the internment zone. No words are spoken, and Commander Magath sighs frequently, for whatever reason.

It doesn’t feel real. It’s not happening.

He brings Porco to the academy, into the instructor room where Porco never set foot before, stops in front of a desk and takes a couple of papers out of the top drawer, then slams it closed. They resume walking, this time going back out in the courtyard, turning around the main building’s corner, right down the flight of stairs that leads to the underground floor. The Commander fishes the key of the old security door out of his pocket and opens it, not even turning to see if Porco is still following him.

Once they’re inside, the Commander closes the door and walks past Porco, without sparing him a glance. The corridor is long and poorly lit, its brick walls covered in musk, cobwebs scattered here and there.

A Marleyan officer stops them in their tracks, exchanging glances with the Commander as he lifts his chin at Porco, glaring at his red armband. Commander Magath pushes the papers in the officer’s hands, and after just a quick glance he steps aside, handing the papers back to the Commander and allowing them to pass. He still eyes Porco suspiciously, though.

“Now you’ll meet someone,” explains the Commander eventually, as they walk further, and now Porco can see empty cells at both sides of the corridor. “I managed to get you some time to talk, to get to know her. It’s customary for all inheritors to have a talk with their predecessors, but since this is an exception they didn’t want you to.”

Porco can’t talk for whatever reason, his tongue firmly sheathed in his mouth, so the Commander adds, “I could only get you ten minutes. I did all I could… but it wasn’t enough. I’m sorry, Porco.”

He stops then, and turns around. His eyes are full of sadness, still wet, and he’s probably waiting for an answer: when it’s clear he’s getting none, he sighs, taking his time, then turns around and bangs on the cell bars with a closed fist.

“Wake up. You’ve got a visitor,” he growls, venom dripping from his voice. “Don’t try anything stupid, it’s on sight.”

No answer from the cell. Commander Magath glances at Porco, then walks back towards the entrance, leaving him alone with whoever is behind those bars.

Porco steps forward, his legs still numb, until he’s standing right in front of the designated cell. There’s a girl in there, curled up on the ground, her trousers all torn and bloody where both her legs are steaming, like they were set on fire. She looks up at Porco, then groans as she shifts into a sitting position, her face scrunched up in distress as she eyes her own knees, the bleeding seemingly slowing down. Titan regeneration, thinks Porco, his mind unfocused and slow.

“Huh. You look a lot like that kid I ate back on the island,” she observes, a southern Marleyan accent that would catch Porco by surprise if all of this wasn’t happening. “Are you his brother or something?”

Porco doesn’t think much of her poor choice of words, and nods, as she clicks her tongue audibly, a whispered curse leaving her thin lips.

“I’d apologize, but I don’t think you’d care. Bet you can’t wait to get back what’s yours, right?”

She doesn’t pull any punches, and maybe she’d elicit a reaction out of Porco, had they met on a different occasion. No use in wondering about that, now.

“So you’re the silent type. I thought you wanted to get to know your meal first,” she snorts then, but there’s no amusement on her face as she tries to move her leg around, frowning as the skin heals by itself at an alarming speed. “Things really haven’t changed in sixty years, I guess.”

He doesn’t care about any of that: he only wishes the Commander would come back to end it all.

“Oi, lad,” she calls then, her voice louder, and Porco allows himself to react a little, blinking twice. “The least you could do is entertain me on my last day here. I don’t even know your name.”

“Porco Galliard,” he answers immediately, as if a high-rank officer questioned him about it: an involuntary reflex, so sudden it leaves his tongue feeling like a damp piece of cotton stuck between his teeth. The girl raises her eyebrows, as if the name sounded familiar to her ears.

“…somehow, it rings a bell,” she murmurs, sitting with her legs crossed- Porco shivers, breath catching in his throat, as he’s reminded for whatever reason of Braun’s favourite sitting position ever since they were little. Why is he thinking of him now? Braun, of all people?

Then it all falls into place. She probably knows him and the others, not to mention all the precious information she could give them.

“Did they interrogate you?” asks Porco, his voice rough, what with it being early morning and his whole body feeling numb from head to toe. The girl snorts, and this time she looks genuinely entertained.

“Nah, I just bashed in my own kneecaps because I was bored,” she retorts, then closes her mouth before adding more to the joke, as if Porco couldn’t understand it fully. “Of course they did, what do you think? It’s not like they held back, either.”

Porco wonders how much she told the officers, and what really happened in that cell. He’s grateful for the poor lightning in there, so he doesn’t have to see the full extent of her healing injuries.

Something clicks into place, only now- it’s her, she’s the one who ate Marcel.

Marcel was eaten.

Marcel is dead.

“Enough with you,” barks Commander Magath out of the blue, and Porco just keeps glaring at her, unfazed. He doesn’t care how long he’s been standing there. “Change into this, you’ll be escorted to the underground chamber. And you can keep your last words to yourself.”

The Commander throws a worn tunic into the cell, the girl catching it with little effort without letting it fall to the ground. Porco can hear Commander Magath’s low hum of surprise at her lightning-quick reflexes, but thinks nothing of it. She’s not worth their time anyway.

“Come with me,” he says then in a lower voice, this time to Porco, as more officers come in, one of them carrying a thin, rectangular box that Porco’s never seen before. He follows the Commander back through the corridor, where they take a left instead of going all the way back, past another locked door and right into another small cell, though its bars appear to be different, a brighter hue of silver that glows in the dim light of the torches.

“You’ll come back here after everything’s said and done,” explains the Commander, pointing with his chin towards the old cot in the furthest corner, a tunic folded neatly on top of it. “Change into that, then I’ll come get you when you’re ready.”

Porco steps forward automatically, stripping and throwing his clothes on the floor unceremoniously, putting the tunic on as he was told. When he’s done he turns back around, finding the Commander looking incredibly distraught, looking to the side. He clears his throat, then glares at Porco, scratching at his beard. Porco knows he’s itching to smoke, right now, he can read it on his face, how the dark blue of his eyes lits up, the thin line of his mouth betraying his agitation.

“I wish I could do something more,” he murmurs then, gruff and awkward, like a child stuck in a grown man’s body. Why is he going this far for Porco, even pushing to get him some time to take everything in, without kicking him into the underground chamber with little to no explanation? Why does he look sorry, of all things, if he’s the same man who was responsible for sending the others on the island?

He’s a Marleyan, isn’t he? Why is he showing pity for an Eldian?

“It’s probably time to go,” he sighs then, looking tired beyond his years. Porco follows him, still silent, still numb. His shoulder is hurting again, but he welcomes it. At least he can feel something.

The Commander brings him to the opposite room, down a flight of stairs that have seen better days. Much like the cell bars in the room they just left, the walls of the chamber are covered in that bright, silvery matter: the girl from before is kneeling on a high pedestal at the back of the room, chained to the wrists, and Porco can see her head hanging low, as if she were sleeping.

A handful of officers turn around sharply, saluting the Commander: among them is the one from before, still holding the rectangular box. As if he could hear Porco’s thoughts, he opens it, so the Commander can grab the syringe and the clear bottle full of liquid inside of it.

“It’s my responsibility now,” he explains, Porco isn’t sure exactly to who or what. The officers look like they’ve seen this happen countless times, and they show little to no reaction, whereas Commander Magath inhales shakily before turning around towards Porco, the syringe now filled with the liquid held inside the small bottle. “Follow me.”

Porco does as he’s told, finding his own legs unsteady, his step faltering, but eventually reaches the base of the pedestal. Now the girl raises her head, and Porco can see her expression, her heavy-lidded glassy gaze that sends a hint of a shiver down his spine.

“When you wake up, you’ll have no memory of whatever happened in here. It’ll come back in time,” the Commander speaks again, his voice sounding weird to Porco’s ears, now that his heartbeat is speeding up, because of Commander Magath’s hand tugging the collar of his tunic down, fully exposing the nape of his neck, a sniper taking aim at the target.

A gasp, a pinprick, ice cold liquid flowing in his body, a wave of sickness crashing against the walls of his stomach, twisting it and filling it with poison, his heart skipping a beat-

The silvery walls of the chamber glow in the colour of gold, thunder strikes the ground where he stands, and he can see it on the girl’s face, tearing its way out of her shell of a body, now filled with drugs, it shows on her features, the freckled bridge of her nose, the dull glow in her eyes-

Fear.

His eyes snap open, and it feels like air is blown right into his lungs- he’s gasping, his heartbeat so fast and strong his body shakes all over, and when he tries to sit up he feels the tug of chains at his wrists, keeping him trapped.

“He woke up, go summon Commander Magath immediately,” says a hushed voice, somewhere to his right, out of the cell.

Porco manages to turn his head slightly to the side, and though his vision is blurry from sleep and exhaustion he can make out the silhouettes of two Marleyan guards, one of them running off to go call the Commander, the other standing right behind the bars, like a statue, waiting for Porco’s next move.

Somehow, he can’t remember anything except waking up in his bedroom at the crack of dawn, the voices of his parents and Commander Magath reaching his ears like an old recurring dream he’s losing memory of. His shoulders are stiff, like he’s been sleeping for days on end, and he wonders how much time has passed- did Zeke come back from the island already? And what is he doing here, anyway?

Before he can clear his throat to try and ask some questions, Commander Magath appears, looking pale like a ghost. He grabs the key and unlocks the small door, walking into the cell, even as the guard frets over him being ‘reckless’ and having to ‘bring a syringe with him, just in case’.

To say Porco’s confused would be an understatement. As the Commander steps inside, Porco tugs at his restraints, and has to shove aside his surprise at not feeling any pain flare up his shoulder, for once. “How are you feeling?” he asks, keeping his distance, as if Porco could somehow turn into a-

Oh.

He tugs again, harder- much harder, now, he grits his teeth and kicks his heels down on the worn out mattress and, as he squeezes his eyes shut, a different kind of pain courses through his body. Now Porco remembers something, and it’s enough to fill him with pure, unbridled rage.

“Fuck,” curses the Commander, backtracking and shoving an arm out through the cell bars, flailing it wildly as he keeps shouting at the guard outside, “give me a tranquilizer, fast, you fucking dickhead!”

Porco can’t hear what they say next, because now he’s the one who shouts, screams, wails- tears start gathering in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks as he keeps thrashing and tugging and twisting in pain, until the Commander is pinning him down, hard, with all of his strength, and clamps a hand on Porco’s jaw to pour the tranquilizer directly on his tongue, its bitter taste splashing in Porco’s mouth and making him feel instantly nauseous.

The Commander squeezes both sides of his throat, rhythmically, and Porco gulps the tranquilizer down against his will: it takes a few more seconds of thrashing around, then he surrenders, his limbs suddenly feeling heavy and numb, his whole body falling asleep before his brain does- then, nothing.

The next time he wakes up, it gets a bit better.

Porco sighs, weary beyond belief. He signals his waking up by tugging at the chains again, their clanking noise catching the attention of the guard outside the cell, who probably just fell asleep after countless hours of watching him lie still while drugged out of his mind. Porco can still taste bitterness on his gums and the tip of his tongue, and barely stops himself from retching.

“Give me a glass of water, will you,” he rasps as the guard walks in, syringe in hand just in case. “I’m going to throw up.”

The guard snorts, refusing to budge from where he is, as he observes Porco from afar. “Learn some manners first.”

“I could turn into a Titan right now and fuck you up so bad your own mum wouldn’t recognize you. Get a fucking move on,” he spits, the obscenities rolling off his tongue giving him a weird sense of comfort: he can almost hear them in the Commander’s voice, and he would laugh if he could. 

Before answering, the guard seems to consider his options: his natural reaction would be to scold Porco, maybe even beat him since he’s chained up and coming down from the tranquilizer, but since this kind of situation doesn’t allow it he settles for glaring at him.

“The Commander is coming here,” he announces then, his voice airy and unbothered, with a hidden promise of revenge at some point in time. “He won’t be pleased with your language, I’d watch my tongue if I were you.”

Knowing Commander Magath will be here soon fills Porco with relief: he’s voluntarily carried the burden to make Porco go through all that without being alone, for the most part, so he can’t wait to thank him. He wonders, distantly, if Mum and Dad have tried to reach out to him. “Are my parents coming, too?”

“We must assess your condition first,” explains the guard, taking a couple of steps forward. “Then we can summon them to pick you up and bring you home.”

“What, like that?” snorts Porco, but winces as he rolls his head to the side, a strong headache hitting the center of his forehead, right from the inside. “I feel like shit. I’m not sure I can go home today.”

“That would be unprecedented, it’s only been a day.”

Porco closes his eyes, finding small relief in doing that. “Yeah. Guess I’ve got a couple more to spend here all chained up.”

The guard opens the cell, as Commander Magath steps inside: Porco knows it’s him because he carries the smell of cigarette smoke with him wherever he goes. “How are you doing?” he asks, still keeping his distance.

“How do you think, Commander,” retorts Porco, eyes still shut. “Not good.”

“Thought as much. Think you can sit up?”

“No, not now.”

A beat of silence, then: “do you need to relieve yourself?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll call a nurse then.”

“Thank you.”

Commander Magath doesn’t answer, and Porco parts his lips, suddenly feeling very embarrassed as he adds, “I mean, thank you, Commander,” his head beginning to pound harder than before.

“It’s nothing,” he dismisses Porco’s correction, his tone gentler than usual.

It takes Porco three days and a half to get dismissed, after endless check-ups and a crash course in how to avoid shifting in the middle of the night, or when he doesn’t mean to. He accepts everything they do or tell him without any visible reaction, his head pounding, the taste of ashes and smoke still strong on the inside of his cheeks.

The headache doesn’t leave him alone for a second, not even when the Commander escorts him out of the underground chambers at sunset, his parents running towards him with a spring in their step he’s never seen before. Porco accepts their hugs, the tears, the hushed words they babble out, everything, he lets them take their sadness and relief out on him, passively, even when Mum hugs him tightly and Dad covers his face with both hands, ashamed to show any more of his weakness.

“Can we go home,” he murmurs eventually, Mum jolting against him. She nods then, trying to regain some composure as she thanks Commander Magath, again, for everything he’s done, Dad mirroring her. Porco exchanges a curt nod with him and then they’re off, the streets unusually empty, a cold wind seeping through Porco’s clothes.

Thankfully, they don’t ask anything about what happened, and what he went through. Mum tells him to call her any time if he needs something, to which Porco answers with a shrug, closing the door of the bathroom behind him. He doesn’t need anyone’s help, he’s fine, just like Marcel was when he came back.

Yeah, he did, back then.

Porco washes himself up thoroughly, his body going through the motions, shivering violently as he dries up and reaches for the clean change of clothes that Mum gave him. He puts a towel on his head and dries his hair half-heartedly, not bothering with combing it this time, he just wants to get into bed, his own bed, and sleep soundly until late in the morning; the taste of ashes is still strong even after he brushes his teeth, but doesn’t think much of it when he walks into his bedroom, closing the door- and locking it.

He’s taking it well, all things considered. He climbs into bed, under the sheets, and a sigh finds its way out of his body as soon as he falls down on the mattress, the damp back of his head digging into the pillow.

His eyes shoot open in the dark, then, without warning.

He feels like throwing up, so he sits up straight, hugging himself, because it’s cold. He’s only wearing a t-shirt.

Teeth chatter. Legs shiver. Lips quiver. Marcel is dead.

Porco’s throat closes up: he hangs his head, forehead hitting his shivering knees, silent, strong sobs wrecking his spine until it collapses, causing him to curl up on himself. They can’t hear him, so he holds it in, he cries quietly, his voice shoved back down his throat with so much violence it seems to claw at the flesh there, blood trickling down with it, all while his stomach is being turned inside out, slowly.

He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, the subsequent sob so violent he almost throws up- he can taste bile in his mouth, but he forces it back down, grimacing at the bitterness of it.

His heart beats so wildly that it runs. It wants to break his ribcage and escape fuck knows where.

Marcel is dead, and Porco is pulling at his own hair, wailing quietly, his voice broken, spent. Marcel is dead, and Porco only has thirteen years left to live.

He’s tired of it already. He hates it.

Porco hugs himself even tighter, clawing at his own skin, drool and snot running down his face and mingling, dripping down his chin, onto his clean clothes, down on the sheets. Sweat drips down his back, it glues the fabric of the shirt to the warm skin there.

He hates it, he hates it, he hates it.

Just come back, he sobs, to the emptiness of his bedroom. No one will listen, so he’s free to show to himself just how weak he is.

Come back, again, a plea, now he’s begging.

Come back to me, he claws at his legs, he’s going to heal up anyway.

I love you, the words the was supposed to say, spat into the night, no voice to carry them out properly to someone who can’t listen to them anymore.

Commander Magath reaches out to him the following afternoon, informing him that special training courses have been scheduled for the next day. Porco accepts it, showing up earlier than agreed, and literally throws himself into it.

He can gain some semblance of control only when he’s in his Titan form: seeing the world through the Jaw Titan’s eyes is different, like resting his eyes in a dimly lit room. He’s a fast learner, and the instructors compliment him on his hard work and dedication: he lets it slide, though, not interested in their insignificant praise.

Adding to that, Porco hasn’t seen Pieck in days: he later learns it’s because she was sent to Paradis together with Zeke, trying to retrieve the Founding Titan after the other warriors located it. That’s all he knows, and he finds he doesn’t care as much as he once would have, it’s like an afterthought to him, now- and he wishes things could go back to normal, but the lingering knowledge that Marcel is dead won’t leave him alone.

Maybe that’s why he’s so proficient with the Jaw Titan: he’s turning into a cold killing machine, just like the Marleyan army’s always wanted. That’s where everyone else failed, he knows, because they all talk about unprecedented talent and such. It took him this, losing his brother, to get the acknowledgment he always yearned for.

He finds it’s pretty sad.

A boat comes back from Paradis: there’s word in the street that the warriors finally returned home.

There’s no such thing as a public welcoming ceremony: no one shows up at the harbour, a dozen Marleyan officers closing off the internment zone, preventing everyone from getting out and go see the warriors. Of course, people are protesting: they want to see three of the four children they sent off five years before, to congratulate them for getting back alive and accomplishing their mission, because that’s what they did, no way they’ve failed, they’re not coming back empty-handed.

It takes the officers a good hour and a half to calm everyone down, sending them home after the particularly effective threat of tightening the curfew. Only a handful of people remain, standing completely still at a distance so they won’t bother anyone, but still on the front line for whenever the warriors will get back. Porco, who is supposed to go talk with the Commander for an emergency briefing, is holding his written permit in hand when he takes a quick glance at the people waiting there: he has to stop dead in his tracks when he spots Braun’s mum.

She’s gotten visibly older in these last few years, her son’s absence clearly affecting her. Whenever Porco sees her around, she wears a thin dark hood on her blond hair, as if she were mourning: now she’s standing there, gaze dead set on the closed gate, her visible determination striking deep in Porco’s heart. It’s almost moving.

“Good morning,” he greets then, walking a couple of tentative steps towards her. She purses her lips forward, exhaling slowly, then nods, acknowledging Porco’s good manners.

Just like Mum, who’s been shielding herself under a thick layer of indifference ever since they got the news and Porco came back from the underground chamber, Braun’s mum stays completely still, unfazed. Porco lets her be and walks off to the gate, feeling the glares of all the remaining onlookers digging a hole in his back as he’s allowed to go out of the internment zone.

To his surprise, just as he gets past the guards, he spots Commander Magath walking right towards him, his eyes wide with what looks like worry: an unspoken request to follow him, to which Porco complies, guessing that it has to do with the others coming back. As soon as they walk past the academy and the Commander takes the higher road that leads to the hospital, Porco’s heart starts picking up speed at an alarming rate: someone’s hurt, someone he knows.

He hopes it’s just that, someone being hurt, and nothing else. He knows he couldn’t take it.

Once inside, the Commander shows his special permit to the nurse at the front desk, and she nods curtly, leading them to the closed-off area reserved to the shifters; Porco inhales sharply, his mind showing him horrible and probable scenarios of Pieck, Bertolt, Annie, Zeke, even Braun, all mangled up and recovering in a thick layer of steam, disfigured and beaten, because it’s only obvious they failed egregiously, or even worse, some of them might be missing, dead in action- why would they close the gate after their arrival if that weren’t the case?

A strong wave of relief rushes through him when Pieck comes out of the room furthest to the right, walking on crutches: she widens her eyes as she spots Porco, and seems to crumple up on herself, like a wilted flower.

“Commander,” she salutes, her voice wavering from visible exertion. “Why did you bring him here?”

“He needs to know the truth, doesn’t he,” barks Commander Magath, and Porco is taken aback to say the least. He’s never seen him this angry with Pieck, as if everything was her fault: she takes it well, though, as she keeps staring right back at him, not even flinching. “I’m not going to tell him, it’s not my duty.”

“But he’s still recovering-”

“Pieck Finger,” shouts Commander Magath, stomping forward and screaming directly in her face, “never try to argue my orders again or I’ll have you stripped of your Titan as well! Now move aside and shut your mouth!”

As well? Porco’s lips part on their own, and this time Pieck averts her eyes, looking down. Who is going to lose their Titan? What’s happening?

Commander Magath grabs Porco’s wrist and tugs him into the room before he can even turn fully towards Pieck and say something to her, anything: then, he barely contains a curse.

Zeke is sitting up in one of the beds, his ankles steaming as his visible bones start reforming on bloodied sheets. His head snaps to the side as soon as the Commander and Porco barge in, and for the first time in his life, Porco sees fear in his unshielded eyes, glasses nowhere to be seen. And, on the bed near Zeke’s-

“Up,” barks Commander Magath, walking past Zeke’s bed, not even glancing at him as if he weren’t there, “get on your fucking legs and come with me,” he shouts, now, his voice ringing in Porco’s ears as he grabs the man’s arm and tugs him up forcefully- Porco can’t believe his eyes.

It’s Braun.

He’s missing both forearms and half a leg, his eyes open but glassy, he hisses in pain as the Commander hoists him up with little care, and he looks nothing like the boy Porco last saw five years ago- tall, judging from how he towers over the Commander, broad with muscles, his face all sharp angles with none of the awkward childlike roundness it once had.

Commander Magath helps him walk forward roughly, ignoring Braun’s continuous hissing as he hops forward on one foot, and Porco helps hold him up on his other side, automatically: Braun jolts, but doesn’t turn his head, keeping it down in what Porco guesses is shame, he couldn’t know- he can’t bear to look him in the eye, now.

They take him to the opposite room, Pieck nowhere to be seen now, and the Commander shoves Braun forward as he falls to the ground: Porco almost bends down to help him, but as the door slams shut behind them something bubbles up in the back of his throat.

Where are Annie and Bertolt?

Before he can ask that aloud, Commander Magath kicks Braun in the ribs, violently, and he rolls to the side with barely a grunt of pain coming out of his lips.

“Tell him what happened, tell him what you did, you sorry excuse of a warrior,” barks again the Commander, “say it to his face!”

Braun doesn’t even have time to open his lips: another kick to the side, then another, then one that probably breaks some of his ribs judging by the violence of it. “Say it!”

Eventually, the Commander stops, leaving Braun there, shivering, blood trickling out the corner of his mouth. It takes a while for his body to heal up, longer than Porco thought, at least. Distantly, he wonders why.

“You’re going to get stripped of your status and Titan anyway, so why the long wait. Just tell him,” insists again the Commander, now breathing heavily from exertion.

Porco can’t tear his gaze away from Braun. He wants to kneel down at his side, help him up, ask him what happened, where are the others, why the Commander is so angry with him that he wouldn’t even let him recover…

“It’s my fault,” wheezes then Braun, coughing blood, his head thumping as he lets it fall on the ground, his neck too tired to support it. His voice is unrecognizable, deep and gruff and laced with guilt, sadness, and who knows what else he’s currently feeling. “We failed… they died because of me…”

The blood that runs in Porco’s veins appears to turn into stone, cold and unmoving, at those words.

“And it’s so convenient to say it like that, isn’t it,” screams again the Commander, his eyes bloodshot as Porco turns towards him, shivering all over. “You can tell him all about how his brother was eaten on your first night there, how they kidnapped the Female Titan, and ate the Colossal! Not to mention the Founder and Attack Titan that you had to bring back- where the fuck are they?”

Braun pants harder, his labored breathing quickly turning into small, pathetic sobs, as the Commander keeps going, “you’re a disgrace to both Marley and your people!”

Porco can’t take it anymore. “I’m outta here,” he says, his own voice cracking, “I’m going to throw up.”

He doesn’t see what happens next, but he can hear the Commander shout even louder, and the violent thud of his boots kicking into Braun’s side, again and again.

For his violent outburst, Commander Magath is granted a full week of leave from his duties; as for Braun, he’s taken to the underground cells for further interrogation, out of the public eye.

Porco sits up straighter in the chair he’s occupying, right at Pieck’s bedside. They’re all silent most of the time these days, even Zeke, who is now fully healed but still comes to visit her. “How’s it going today?” he asks, glancing out of the window, from where he can see the academy’s courtyard.

“I’m fine now, I wish they’d let me out even if I’m on crutches.”

Zeke sighs, quickly mirrored by Porco, who feels like an outlier, useless and unable to console her the way Zeke surely can. “It’s for our safety, I guess. It’s a very critical time for Marley. They want to protect us after what happened… we could all be stripped of our powers, not just Reiner.”

Porco hangs his head. For some reason, he’s been thinking about Bertolt’s words from back then, when he didn’t want to leave him behind, when he wanted them all to be friends and hang out together. When things were simple.

Now Bertolt is dead. There’s no way he can tell him he was right, and that he’s sorry for having always been a complete arse.

“He shouldn’t be taking all the blame,” murmurs Pieck, and Porco grits his teeth behind sealed lips.

“Someone is to blame, and who better than him?” observes Zeke, now turning around, resting his back against the window, arms crossed on his chest. “I’m sure Porco agrees. He has all the right reasons to do so, after all.”

Pieck sighs, refusing to talk any further about that; Porco glares at Zeke who, as if he were completely unbothered by all of it, turns back to look out the window, his shoulders hanging lower than usual.


	9. 09 - and do i take you by the hand and lead you through the land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i'm early but i was dying to post this chapter so here you go! have a nice day everyone :*

Time comes to a standstill: Porco lies in his bed, awake just like every other night, and thinks of Braun’s mum, standing there in the middle of the street, glaring at the closed gate as she waits for her son to come back home.

It’s been three days since Braun was released, his trial now over: he’ll be sent to the front line for the time being, what with Marley not affording the time to train other warrior candidates, and the Allied Forces readying their naval fleets to attack at any moment’s notice, now that the news of Marley losing two Titans is of public domain. Porco sneers to himself at the thought: it’s just like him to be let off easy even after the disaster on Paradis.

So it’s his fault, he’s the one responsible for Marcel’s death: he can think those exact words clearly, the back of his mind throbbing with pain. He knows he’s going to live like this for the rest of his life, he might as well get used to it. He hasn’t lived a normal day in his life ever since he enlisted for the warrior program all those years ago, anyway.

He’s seen the warrior spot stolen from under his nose, and it was Braun to do it; he’s seen his potential friends leave him behind, all because Braun had to join them and steal them away from him; he’s lost his brother, and it was Braun who left him behind, on the same night they got on the island, nobody knowing anything for years; and there’s not a single day that passes without thinking of him, of everything he’s taken away from Porco, and all the other things he’s going to take away from him sooner or later.

It’s Braun’s fault: all of it.

Porco keeps tossing and turning in bed, frowning in the darkness of his room, and eventually kicks the sheets off his body, annoyed with himself for not being able to get even a single night’s rest. Sometimes he just wanks, though it rarely works, but there’s no harm in trying.

As soon as he lifts the hem of his pants, he hears Braun’s voice, breaking, as he admits he’s guilty- he lets the elastic band of his pants snap back on his skin, tearing his hands away from it and squeezing his eyes shut, harder, rolling on his side and curling up on himself, so he can listen to his own erratic heartbeat and wish for someone to smack his head hard enough not to feel anything for a good while.

The small bottle of hardening serum they made him drink shows its utility: Porco slams the Jaw Titan’s hand on an enemy cannon, causing it to blow up with minimal damage to its reinforced claws.

He’s been running along the whole length of the enemy trench, attacking relentlessly as the Mid-East forces load their rifles and shoot his Titan in the face, the bullets ricocheting off its hardened skin like mosquitoes drunk on blood. It’s one of the first battles they fight on land, the bulk of the war advancing slowly but surely towards the mainland as the naval fleet makes quick work of Marley’s outdated equipment.

Porco leaps forward, a bullet tearing apart the skin on the Jaw’s thigh, but it doesn’t stop him from slashing the sniper’s head off his body with minimal effort. He turns the Jaw’s head to make sure the trench dug by the candidates is deep enough, trying not to focus on the scattered corpses here and there, all of them sporting yellow armbands.

A moment of distraction is something he can’t afford, and he learns it the hard way when another wave of enemy soldiers jumps out of another trench, rifles in hand as they take aim: Porco starts running back as fast as he can, though he’s too far, he can’t make it in time, not for the children who are digging another trench, unaware-

An enemy cannon flies across the sky, Porco’s Titan stopping dead in its tracks as it comes crashing down, the screams of the enemy soldiers dying out as soon as it lands on them, smashing their faces off, breaking their bodies, leaving only blood and torn flesh in its wake. Another one is thrown immediately after, taking out the remaining, advancing shooters, as Porco jumps to take out the few of them still standing.

He grits his teeth when he hears the Armored Titan’s heavy footsteps, running towards him to help, its side of the battlefield already under control judging by the situation. Porco can’t help it: he has to tear his gaze away from it before he feels sick.

“Good job out there.”

It’s the first time Commander Magath’s expressed any sort of praise towards Braun ever since he came back: Braun must be taken aback, because his eyes widen and he averts his gaze immediately, thanking the Commander in a hushed voice.

Braun’s been proving himself on the battlefield for months, by now: mission after mission, he’s never complained, not even once, getting barely a single day of leave, no time to rest whatsoever. This is apparently thought as commendable by the army, since there’s talks of promoting him, even- giving him the illusion of a rank in their military, much like Zeke’s War Chief position, that means everything and nothing at the same time. Porco sneers despite himself, sipping at his lukewarm chicken soup while throwing imaginary darts at Braun from afar.

They’re sitting at opposite sides of the small fire the candidates lit up a couple of hours ago: sleeping in tents, huddled around a weak fire is all Porco’s known for a full week, maybe more, though he’s not complaining. Sometimes, he risks glancing at Braun, still unable to process that the awkward lumpy boy he knew turned into a, for lack of a better word, decent warrior: he’s capable, the candidates depend on him, even the Commander seems to have softened his barking when giving him orders.

Not to mention how popular he is among the girls, and the boys, even, that look up to him. Porco remembers some of them having it bad for him, when he just started out as a proper warrior on the battlefield, but now it’s like everything they see is how tall Braun is, and how tight the uniform sits on his broad shoulders.

Porco is thankful that Braun rarely talks, though, because the sound of his deep, throaty voice is too much to handle: it makes him want to kick him in the face for how irritating it is.

“Mister Braun,” squeaks a small girl, saluting despite her standing right beside him: Braun turns around to look at her, the dim light of the fire highlighting the slight scruff that’s been growing on his chin lately.

“Yes?” he answers, a lazy half-smile pulling at the visible corner of his mouth: Porco looks down at his soup, pointedly.

“Could I get more soup, please?” she asks, and Porco can almost feel Commander Magath’s glare, directed at her. They’re supposed to eat as little as possible, saving food for the subsequent days, since there’s no telling how long it could take to gather the corpses and assess the full control of the area.

Braun is not answering, and Porco spies from above the rim of his chipped cup, finding him as he throws a sideways glance at the Commander, then looks back up at the small girl. “Did you eat this morning?”

“No, Mister Braun,” she reveals then, her small shoulders sagging in her too-big uniform. “I was digging so I didn’t have time.”

Despite not being involved in this, Porco’s ears perk up at her words: he studies her, short and petite, her knuckles a milky white as she clenches an empty cup- it’s not even clean, probably used by someone else, a few bits of food still glued to one side of it. He knows the truth: she was being punished for whatever it was she did, and had to go out earlier to dig, with the promise of a full bowl of soup for when she came back, only to find nothing because she was the last of her group, or the slowest one to dig.

That, or she skips meals voluntarily, something Porco himself is still trying to grow out of.

“That’s unfortunate. I’m afraid we must save this for tomorrow,” murmurs Braun, his voice warm, as if to lessen the blow of telling a small child that she won’t be able to eat until the next day; though, as he says that, he hands his own bowl to her, still mostly full, and takes her empty one with a swift movement, all while glancing at the Commander, who turned his back on them right as Braun spoke words of dismissal.

The little girl, clearly having understood the secrecy of Braun’s actions, runs off without even a word of thanks, though her eyes say it all. Braun stares at her as she hops away back to her spot, then sets the empty bowl down with a deep, slow inhale that is probably needed to calm down his stomach cramps.

Porco gulps down whatever’s left of his soup, making sure to clean the bottom of the cup properly, refusing to even think of offering half of it to Braun. Sleeping on an empty stomach will teach him to avoid playing hero, next time.

There’s such a thing as sensitivity when doing this kind of task: Porco has never found himself thinking of unnecessary shit whenever he had to pick up corpses of all ages, identify them and later throw them into a trench because there’s too many of them to bring back, all while the stench of death runs freely through his nose. They’re helping with it too, this time, their unit having suffered such heavy losses that it’s required they stay.

That’s why he stops what he’s doing when he listens in on two young girls’ conversation, in which they’re openly appreciating Braun, going so far as to define him “a hunk”, while Porco is right there, hoisting up the corpse of a kid whose front permanent teeth are barely poking out of his gums.

“You think he’s into girls?” asks the other, giggling quietly to herself, a soulless sound that leaves a bad taste in Porco’s mouth. “You know how it is. People talk a lot and you can never believe them.”

“I hope he is. That would be a waste.”

“Oi,” grunts Porco, glaring at them openly now, “cut the crap and work.”

He almost averts his eyes in shame, though, when both girls turn to look at him, fresh tears sliding down their cheeks, their expressions dead as they nod, then go back and resume talking about Braun. Porco notices how their hands shake horribly, the way one of them almost retches when turning around the body of a soldier with half his face blown off, a stark contrast from what they’re saying, what they’re clinging to for preserving what little peace of mind they’ve got left, and decides to leave them be, walking away from that side of the trench.

Eventually he spots Braun himself, kneeling down to move a particularly foul-looking corpse into the trench without compromising it further. When he gets up he’s breathing heavily, sporting dark eye bags way more prominent than usual, sweat plastering short hair to his forehead.

It comes to Porco’s mind that they haven’t ever had a proper conversation, one on one, ever since he came back: so maybe now is not the best time, though he can’t help himself when he spits, more arrogant than he thought he’d sound, “you look like fucking shit.”

To his surprise, Braun cracks a small, soulless smile. “Thanks.”

Porco wonders how the boy he knew back then would’ve reacted, then casts the thought aside, knowing he can’t allow himself to think of him as the same twelve-year-old Braun. It’s clear something changed in Braun during those five years, causing him to come back as a completely different person: he’d ask him everything about it, but before he can feign any sort of friendliness he’s reminded that he’s the primary cause of Marcel’s death, so he keeps quiet, and waits, for something he doesn’t know yet. A sign of sorts, maybe. A tipping point.

“Should’ve eaten your meal when you had to, look at yourself now. You’re beyond tired.”

Muscles aren’t worth anything when there’s no food to back them up: Porco’s learnt this the hard way, and while he’s still smaller than Braun, the bulk he’s been putting on lately is nothing to scoff at.

Braun isn’t giving him any attention: he’s still hopping in and out of the trench, moving bodies around with utmost care, as Porco keeps watching him, arms hanging limp at both sides. “I’m talking to you,” he calls out then, and Braun barely even glances up at him.

“Are you tired? You can take a breather.”

Porco gives himself no time to think of Braun’s words as nothing but poisonous sarcasm, and turns on his heels to walk as far away from him as possible, gritting his teeth, hard.

As Pieck sits down in the chair next to him, Porco averts his gaze from her, realizing out of the blue that he’s been barely thinking about her at all, lately.

Nevertheless, he keeps playing his little private game of wondering, daydreaming, conjuring hypothetical scenarios in his head where Pieck returns his attraction, living his teenage dream to the fullest. The idea that it’s a way of coping with the life he leads touches him more than once, though he never gives it more attention than needed before it starts planting roots in his mind.

They all got a full two days of leave, December slowly coming to an end, as the Allied Forces keep toying with the possibility of signing a treaty to cease all hostilities following Marley’s clear cut superiority on land. There’s still the matter of their armed fleets, much more organized than Marley’s, that could eventually turn the tide in their favour: for the moment, they’ve come to a standstill, and the wise decision of retreating for a few days is shared by both sides.

Pieck had insisted to go out for drinks, all together: eventually, she managed to get all of them in the same place, and Porco can’t help but hope the awkwardness he feels is shared by everyone.

He doesn’t know the details, but it’s plain to see there’s bad blood between Zeke and Braun: they barely even glance at each other, Zeke’s animosity more polite, guarded, whereas Braun sports a rare frown on his face that makes him look like the teenage boy he could’ve been a couple of years before. Pieck acts like nothing ever happened, but tries her best to involve everyone, and Porco lets himself get carried away so he can steal quick, automatic glances at her every now and then.

“I hear they found a pretty promising candidate to inherit the Beast,” pipes up Pieck when the silence is too thick to ignore, each of them sitting on one side of the square table, their glasses clinking softly whenever they’re set down on it. Zeke blinks, surprised, then grins as he strokes his beard out of habit, flattening it down on his chin.

“Yeah, he’s not bad. I’ll have to take him under my wing soon.”

“I’m glad then. Who is it?”

“Know the Grice family? Their oldest, Colt. His younger brother has also joined the program recently.”

“Oh, I heard about them.”

“Parents are willing to sacrifice everything to maintain their pride and status, even their own children. I guess this will always stand true.”

Porco tunes them out quickly, staring at the bottom of his glass as he takes another sip. When he sets it down his gaze is caught by Braun’s profile as he leans back in his seat, looking at something far off in the distance, a finger tugging at his tie to loosen it around his neck. He’s been losing bulk steadily in the last months, while Porco has been gaining it, though he’s retaining his broad bone structure, whereas Porco seems to have stopped growing altogether. Even now, comparing himself to this version of Braun feels wrong, as if a stranger with a completely different personality took his place, only a mere echo of who he once knew living on in his memories.

There’s several missing pieces that tie the awkward boy and the quiet man together, and Porco grimaces with frustration at the thought that he might never find them. Because he wants to: know your enemy is what they say, and for what he’s concerned, Braun is one.

He could be sitting here with Bertolt and Annie. He could be here with Marcel.

Porco looks back up at him, at the naked column of his neck, as the alcohol gets to his head and burns the inside of his cheeks.

Turns out that sending their warriors home isn’t the sharpest thing the Marleyan army’s done.

It’s only been a day and a half, and the units are reorganizing already, the Allied Forces fleet having wiped out the Marleyan units stationed near Fort Salta. The fastest way to get there is undoubtedly by air and, to make quick work of their assault and minimize their losses, Commander Magath assigns Zeke and Braun to the newly established airborne unit.

There’s still tension between the Commander and Braun, as expected: he’s never complimented him properly for beginning to rise through the ranks, gaining the faith of the Marleyan army battle after battle, and Braun has never asked for any praise, always keeping his head low. This will be the first time they all share the battlefield, and according to Pieck, who sat through their briefing earlier that morning, Porco just had to be there.

“It was priceless. You should have seen the Commander’s face whenever Reiner said something.”

She doesn’t sound that entertained: Porco glances sideways at her as they walk together towards the train station, and focuses on the thin, inexpressive line of her lips.

“Must’ve been some serious bullshit,” scoffs Porco, despite having seen with his own two eyes the extent of Braun’s expertise in battle and military planning. There’s no way he’s going to say that out loud, though: he gets enough praise as it is, despite what he’s caused.

“You know it’s not true. The Commander was upset precisely because he proved him how smart he is. Who would have thought, really makes you wonder what he went through back there.”

This time, Porco sees Pieck’s wonder as genuine. He expects the usual bitter aftertaste that fills his mouth whenever she puts another man on a higher pedestal than him, but it doesn’t hit as hard as it usually does: perhaps he doesn’t really see Braun as competition, that’s why.

When their unit gets to Fort Salta, most of the work is done already. After wiping out the last of their snipers, who’d been waiting hidden close the fort, the Commander orders Porco and Braun to follow him inside, to make sure there’s none of them left.

“They can arrange the cleanup without us,” informs the Commander, leading them towards the fort, rifle held steady in his arms, both Porco and Braun mirroring him. As they walk up to the entrance in silence, Porco bites the inside of his cheek, his ears having picked up Braun’s heavy breathing: he hasn’t had a single chance to rest after carrying most of the close range battling himself, and it’s starting to affect Porco, too.

“Cut that out,” he murmurs eventually, and it takes Braun a while before he turns his head, looking at him questioningly.

“Cut what,” he asks, his voice rough, low, and Porco shrugs, focusing on his surroundings instead of bothering with stupid details.

Right then, it happens: Porco spots the movement out the corner of his eye, but before he can say or do something, the sniper’s already fired a shot from the crate he was hiding behind, the barrel of his gun pointed right at the Commander’s forehead-

Commander Magath falls down, hard, right on his arm, and Braun follows, crashing down on him, as the bullet flies past them: Porco doesn’t waste a moment, and shoots without taking aim properly, though he manages to get the sniper’s shoulder, sending him flying backwards.

The sniper’s eyes are closed as Porco leaps past the crate, smacking the butt of the rifle on his face: his nose breaks on impact, digging back into his skull, and his mouth falls open in a silent shout as blood spurts out of the bullet wound. Porco makes quick work of him, fishing a small knife from his pocket and going for his jugular, finding his own breathing labored after the sniper rattles and his head falls to the side, more blood falling from his lips and bathing his chin in red.

When he turns around, he sees the Commander sitting up with a frown on his face, Braun helping him, his own arm bleeding all the way down to his elbow.

“Commander, are you alright?” pants Porco as he runs back to him, kneeling down right beside Braun, only then noticing how the bullet did graze him, steam already coming out of the torn sleeve of his uniform, the blood evaporating as it trickles down.

“Fine, yeah,” he grunts, his frown deepening as he tries to stand up. “Just got the wind knocked out of my lungs… you’re damn heavy,” he scoffs then, setting his gaze on Braun, who doesn’t return it, not even when he helps him up on his feet, barely wincing at his own wound.

“I think your wrist is broken, Commander,” observes then Braun, still helping him to stand upright. “I can carry your rifle as we go back.”

Porco is pretty sure Commander Magath is going to bark something about him being able to do it on his own, that he doesn’t need to be babied, and that he’d better be sorry for having almost crushed him under his weight; but he’s surprised when he almost, almost snorts, and hands the rifle to Braun, nodding.

Porco lags behind as they make their way back to their temporary base, covering their backs, and trying to ignore the small bubble of distress stuck in the middle of his throat.

He can’t take it anymore after they’ve had dinner, and waits for Braun’s turn to guard their base so he can walk out of his tent and confront him directly: it’s almost funny how they can only talk now, just the two of them, but Porco doesn’t want to miss the opportunity no matter how absurd and out of place it looks.

Braun almost gasps in surprise as Porco walks up to him, sitting down on the same old rag he’s resting on, and he shifts to the side to give him more space. Porco takes the opportunity to look at him up close, the scruff on his chin still there, as if Braun couldn’t be bothered to shave it off no matter how ridiculous it looks.

“Growing a beard, are we,” he murmurs, not to wake up the others. Braun shows no visible reaction, just keeps staring right ahead, his eyelids heavy with exertion and sleepiness as he blinks increasingly slowly.

“Just say it,” he whispers then, hoarse, Porco biting his lower lip. He’ll never get used to his voice, he suspects, with how rarely they talk to each other. “No small talk, say what you want to say and get this over with.”

“Alright. I fucking hate you.”

Braun scoffs, though his lips never stretch into any semblance of smile. “I gathered that much.”

“Aren’t you going to apologize?” spits then Porco, rage building with every passing moment: he feels like he came here to set things right, only to be brushed off as a necessary annoyance, something that will eventually leave Braun alone, like a sudden itch that needs to be scratched.

He gives himself a few moments to think, his gaze still roaming over the horizon, then opens his lips with a slight popping sound as he murmurs, his voice even lower, “I don’t get the luxury to do that, do I. It’s pathetic.”

Porco refuses to inspect Braun’s words further: all he knows is that he’s being a complete arse, and it’s not helping his situation in the slightest. “So you won’t apologize for what you caused because you think it’s pathetic? Nice. But that was my brother, back then, who you left alone to die.”

At those words, Braun squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling loudly from his nose, his lips sealed and pressed up together.

“You just wait until I can see his memories,” spits Porco again, inching closer to Braun’s side, their shoulders almost touching, “so I can get the perfect excuse to beat the shit out of your sorry arse.”

Before Braun can retort, he stands up with a jolt, and stomps back inside his tent with next to no regard for his surroundings.

Commander Magath joins him off the train as they stop halfway through their journey home to get some fresh air. His wrist is bandaged tightly: he holds the lighter up towards Porco, and he takes it dutifully, helping him light up the cigarette he’s holding between his lips.

“You get one as well, today,” he says then, taking another cigarette out of his packet with a skilled single hand. Porco frowns but accepts it anyway, putting it in his mouth tentatively. “Now listen up. You’ve got to inhale while you’re lighting it.”

Porco does as he’s told, unable to avoid the grimace that blooms involuntarily on his face as soon as the taste hits, the texture of the cigarette butt feeling weird on his lips: he takes it out quickly, holding it like the Commander does, and as he releases the smoke he lurches forward in a fit of coughs he can’t seem to hold in.

“Pretty sad to see,” laughs Commander Magath as Porco catches his breath, “did your father never show you how to take a proper drag?”

Before answering, Porco forces a stronger cough out of his throat, tears of exertion gathering at the corner of his eyes. “He’s got shitty lungs,” he wheezes, coughing again, his whole face heating up in embarrassment and irritation.

“A thing we have in common,” jokes the Commander, inhaling again, as Porco watches him carefully. “I’ll teach you how to avoid this in the future, so you’re not wasting one of my precious cigarettes. Now listen up and do as I say- and you can keep the lighter, I’ve got plenty of them fuck knows where.”

Liberio welcomes them as heroes when they get home the following day: as they step past the main gate, there’s a rush of worried parents and little siblings and even grandparents coming at them, all eager to hug their loved ones.

Lately, Dad has started to hug Porco as well: it’s brief and stilted, like he isn’t used to it, but he accepts it. The ever-growing distance that Porco’s duty puts between them seems to have reduced the coldness there once was, or maybe Dad is just getting softer with age, Porco doesn’t really know- but he suspects that, just now, he realizes he’s only got one son left and he better cherish him for however long he can.

As Mum tells him something about his cousins who can’t wait to see him again, Porco looks to the side, the screeching of a small girl impossible to ignore: her voice is shrill, threatening to make Porco’s ears bleed, and he’s about to snort at the mental image of it when he sees who she’s screaming to.

Braun is kneeling down at her height, hugging her with such genuine affection that Porco is taken aback.

His mum is standing there, too: as soon as Braun stands back up they hug as well, and her face shows all the signs of relief, pain, and worry that every parent’s face has whenever their sons and daughters come back. The small girl, who Porco now remembers is Braun’s cousin, grabs and tugs at his arm, probably insisting that they go home so he can tell them all about the mission: when Braun looks back down at her, and Porco can see his profile more clearly, he spots perhaps the first genuine smile he’s seen from Braun in literal years.

It looks sweet on him, somehow, in stark contrast with the hard lines of his face, the broadness of his body, the dull, ever-present sadness in his eyes. Porco has to shake his head and ask Mum what she just said, and he’s sorry he wasn’t listening, he tells her.

Slowly, it creeps up on him, and starts being a bother.

“What if,” he speaks up one day, toying with the pencils scattered all over Pieck’s desk, “just, hypothetically speaking… what if I was into someone who’s in the army as well? Is that allowed?”

Pieck looks up from her report, Porco standing in front of her table, looking down at her with the slightest frown on his face. She’s probably realized what he wants to say already, but would rather wait for him to actually spell it out loud. “It depends,” she offers, and Porco tries his best not to avert his gaze, “why do you ask?”

“Just wanted to know,” he shrugs, playing the unbothered card, “in case it happens. So I can count my blessings in advance.”

“Is that it? And here I thought you had it bad for someone,” she shoots then, quick and to the point, and Porco hopes his indifferent facade is at least partly believable as he scoffs.

“It depends on what, exactly?” he insists then, Pieck looking back down at her report, her gaze darting quickly from one sentence to the other as she rereads what she just wrote.

“If you’ve got it bad for, say, Commander Magath, then it’s definitely frowned upon. Marleyans are a no-go, especially if they’re your superiors.”

Porco grimaces, his mental hierarchy of acquaintances putting the Commander and his parents on the same level. “Yeah, I kind of already knew that. But thanks for the gross example.”

At Porco’s snide remark, Pieck giggles, her cheeks puffing up in delight. “I know, right?”

Before it’s too late, Porco takes his chance and asks, in an airy voice, “so he’s not your type, is he?”

Instead of answering right away, Pieck cocks her head to the side, her hair shifting off her shoulder, and Porco’s gaze falls right there, though he finds his mind blank and unresponsive. “No, he isn’t. But I guess I don’t really have a type, in general.”

“I see,” concedes Porco, though he genuinely can’t see shit.

“What about yours, then?” she pipes up, her voice suddenly picking up in volume as she sets her pen down, her full attention towards him: it’s like she expects something, and Porco takes his time, swallowing for good measure, and Pieck insists, chirping again, “who do you like?”

It comes out before Porco can think enough, before other, intrusive thoughts can start creeping in. “I like you.”

Pieck’s face falls.

“…oh,” she hums, leaning back in her chair, averting her gaze. She definitely looks like she didn’t anticipate this, and Porco is regretting ever saying anything at all, as he scratches the back of his neck, his ears threatening to melt off his head in shame. There, Porco’s gotten his answer.

“I’m… I’m not trying to, like, ask you out, or anything, really- I just… I had to tell you, before… before anything happened between you and, uh, whoever you like. If you like someone. I mean, it’s not- you don’t have to answer, really.”

As Porco stutters his way out of this hellhole, Pieck snorts a laugh despite herself, picking her pen up again, toying with a corner of the piece of paper she’s currently writing on. “I’m just surprised,” she explains, “I never noticed that. Since when?”

Porco thinks, quickly, back to the last evening they all spent together before the others left for Paradis, when he stood up to walk back home with Braun. “Ever since we were kids,” he blurts out, casting his gaze aside, to the small bouquet of flowers to the left.

He can feel Pieck staring at him, but does nothing to return her gaze, and they stay just like that, two statues existing in the same space, until Pieck goes back to her report, and Porco can relax his neck, facing forward again.

“I’m sorry, I don’t really know how to say this,” she says then, her voice almost a whisper, “but it’s not mutual.”

It hurts surprisingly less than Porco thought it would. His heart doesn’t break, his breath doesn’t catch in his throat, he doesn’t tear up or even feel angry, or frustrated. He nods at her words, hiding his fists into the sleeves of his jacket. “Alright.”

“Alright,” she parrots, then adds, “sorry, but I need to hand this in before tomorrow.”

“Yeah- I… I know, sorry. See you, then.”

Porco is almost out of the door when Pieck answers, her voice distracted, and that’s when it hurts the most: she wasn’t even going to answer him. She just remembered because she heard Porco open the door.

Frustration and rejection truly hit only after a couple of days, when they’re still on extended leave: Mum notices it first, sighing after Porco lets the fork fall down on the empty plate, just like Dad does when he’s in a bad mood. Though she says nothing, Porco’s noticed her glare from across the table. Not that it stops him.

In every single thing he does, there’s a lightning-quick burst of rage coursing through him: he slams the door of his room a bit stronger than he usually would, he curses out loud when he can’t find the sleeve of his jacket on his first try, he glares at the children who bump into him by mistake as he walks to the gate.

Perhaps this is the tipping point he was waiting for, because all of a sudden he’s knocking on the door of Braun’s room, shoving past him as soon as he opens it.

“Do you need something?” asks Braun in a clipped tone, closing the door carefully before turning around to face Porco, who stands in the middle of the barely furnished room, both hands fisted tightly in the pockets of his jacket.

Braun’s been back for more than a year now, and Porco wonders why he ever wasted so much time before finding an excuse to be alone with him.

“You think you can apologize now? Because I’m fucking tired of it all,” he says, practical, straight to the point. He doesn’t miss Braun’s sigh, barely concealed behind sealed lips.

“I thought you-”

“I don’t care what you thought,” interjects Porco, the back of his head heating up from the pent up rage he feels, “or even what you’re thinking now. I deserve it, don’t I? My brother died because of you. The least you could do is ask for it.”

“Ask for what, your forgiveness?” grunts Braun, averting his eyes. Porco would very much like to hit him, right now. “You’re not going to forgive me, and I have no right to apologize. I thought we made this clear, back then.”

Porco swallows before spitting back, “I changed my mind.”

To Porco’s surprise, Braun nods, now glaring back at him, something in his eyes he can’t quite decipher. “Then what sparked this? You didn’t see his memories yet, I guess.”

He thinks, briefly, of Pieck’s words- it’s not mutual- then, he grits his teeth.

“You’ve been ruining my life ever since I met you,” he answers, then, though his voice comes out lower than intended, and his choice of words doesn’t quite sit right with him. Just like when he used to lie about skipping breakfast, or when he swore to Mum last week that no, he doesn’t smoke, he never did.

Braun closes his eyes, another sigh that raises the line of his shoulders, then lets them fall, lower than before. His hand closes around the doorknob and he opens the door, gently, enough for Porco to slip out of the room.

“I think you should leave, now,” he murmurs, refusing to meet his gaze.

Porco grabs him by the wrist, tearing his hand away from the door, Braun immediately freeing himself from his grasp: now he glares back at him, looking down, and that’s when Porco punches him square in the face.

A thin trail of blood drips out of Braun’s nose, sliding down on his parted lips, as he turns his head back to glare, again, at Porco. Before he says anything he spits on the ground, eyes never leaving Porco as he provokes him, voice rough and blood smearing all over his lower lip as he asks, “satisfied yet?”

No, he truly isn’t. Punching Braun in the face did nothing to relieve him from the rage and frustration he feels: if possible, he feels worse than before, now- perhaps that’s what happened to the Commander when he hit Braun in the hospital, back when Porco first saw him again. He hesitates: he should get some semblance of payback for what happened to Marcel and the others, but if even taking it out on him physically doesn’t work, Porco wonders what could he do to try and patch up his heart a little bit.

He feels worse by the second. Maybe he really should leave.

“As soon as I get his memories back… then, you’ll see,” he pants, then, his breathing labored for whatever reason. “I’ll have fun watching you drop to your hands and knees for the Marleyans, until then.”

Braun wipes the blood off his face with the back of his hand, his lower lip now swollen, blood smeared at the corner of his mouth. Porco clears his throat, reaching for the doorknob with a shaking hand, Braun’s glare burning a hole in the back of his head as he walks out, slamming the door shut half as hard as he wanted to.

Now both of them throw themselves into countless missions, one after the other, with little regard for their own well-being.

Porco’s started to smoke at home, as well, coming back so rarely that the grip of parental authority Mum had on him before has almost entirely dissipated: he brings a bottle of wine to his room in the evening, too, and he explains with a half-hearted snort that it helps with acid reflux because he tends to eat too much out of nervousness. It does help with washing the taste of puke out of his mouth though, when he’s on leave for too long and left alone with his thoughts for a full sleepless night.

He shares most missions with Pieck and Zeke, sometimes Braun, too: they don’t sit together when resting, or eating, or standing guard during the night, but Porco makes a point to keep an eye on him, just in case he tries licking some boots to rise up the chain of command. He’s slimmed down again, and he sports a full beard now, not as thick as Zeke’s but still there. And he looks like he hasn’t seen a haircut in months, his hair parted to the side, a fringe covering the top of his high forehead.

Porco sighs, looking down at his empty bowl. He’s still hungry.

“Should’ve brought a couple more sandwiches,” jokes Zeke, his voice tired from the long day. Pieck smiles, lazily, and sets down her own bowl, resting her chin on her arms, crossed on her knees. Porco ignores the back of her neck, exposed by her low, messy side ponytail. He finds it doesn’t interest him as much.

“Maybe,” grunts Porco, fishing for his pack of cigarettes, without thinking, and that’s when Pieck clicks her tongue, disapprovingly.

“You should stop doing that,” she chides him, tired as well, yawning before she can add, “it’s not good for you.”

Porco lights up the cigarette, eyebrows drawn together. “I’m not going to get cancer or anything.”

“No, but you’ll get yellow teeth and bad breath.”

With a scoff, Porco thinks that this never really bothered her when it came to Zeke, though he knows better than to say it out loud, so he just ignores her. “We’re going back to the city tomorrow, aren’t we? Let’s go out for drinks,” he croaks then, smoke puffing out of his lips. “I’m buying.”

“I’ll pass,” refuses Zeke, taking off his glasses to clean them with the sleeve of his uniform. “I’m supposed to get straight back to Liberio tomorrow. Maybe next time.”

Porco leans back on his elbows as he takes another drag, this time holding the smoke in longer, blurting out a disappointed “boring,” before exhaling with his nose. Pieck scoots a bit to her left, as if she wanted to avoid it. “What about you, Pieck?”

“Yeah, sure,” she says, turning her head just slightly to offer Porco a genuine smile. “It’s been a while since we went out.”

“Great.”

“It is. Though,” she precises, hugging her knees to her chest, “you’ve got to ask Reiner as well.”

Tapping his cigarette, Porco lets out a sharp, hoarse laugh. “Of course, yeah, we’ll even hold hands.”

“Bring a photographer with you, will you, Pieck? We need to immortalize such an event,” interjects Zeke, still cleaning his glasses, as Pieck laughs, the sound of it irritating Porco to no end.

“I’m not joking, Pokko-”

“Don’t call me that,” he interrupts, his voice steelier than he intended. “I’m not asking him to come, we don’t even talk.”

Pieck frowns at that. “But I like Reiner. He’s nice.”

“Glad you feel that way about him,” scoffs Porco, sitting back up to throw the cigarette butt into the fire. “So you want to get him drunk and cop a feel?”

This time, Zeke laughs, but Pieck keeps staring at Porco, her expression unreadable: Porco stares back, knowing full well that his joke was uncalled for. It’s become a trend for him, holding grudges with people but doing nothing to actively confront them about that.

“I’ll ask him, then,” she declares, her mouth stretching in a small smile, and Porco knows she’s provoking him. “We’ll go together, just the three of us. Lots of dirty laundry to be aired. What do you say?”

Porco snorts, a grimace blooming on his face naturally. “Yeah, go ahead and try, he’s not going to come anyway.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Before Porco can say anything more, Pieck stands up, patting the back of her uniform to get the sand off it, and walks around the small fire towards where Braun is sitting, among the younger cadets who are slowly but surely falling asleep, all huddled up together. Porco glares at her the whole time: she bends down to tap at his shoulder, and Braun turns his head to look at her. Pieck bends down even further now, a hand in front of her mouth as she whispers into Braun’s ear, damn her and damn him- Porco knew she just had to go and do that, and he doesn’t miss how Braun seems flustered when she moves back, an easy smirk playing on her lips.

Eventually, Braun nods, scratching at his jaw absentmindedly, and says something that makes Pieck giggle in delight. Then, just like that, she holds a hand up to bid him goodbye and walks back to where she was sitting, as Porco turns his head away, sharply, wishing there was even a drop of wine left around, his throat dry for whatever reason.

“He said yes,” she chirps, flopping back down beside Porco.

“Great, have fun on your date.”

“It’s not a date, it’ll be the three of us,” declares Pieck, still smiling, though there’s a cold edge to it that doesn’t go unnoticed. “Just to relax, right? We grew up together after all. Especially the two of you.”

Porco grimaces. There were other three people with them, too, and that’s the problem.

The small city where they stop for the night is under Marleyan occupation, so no one bats an eye when they walk to the nearest bar they can find, red armbands standing out on white uniforms. Pieck steps inside first as Braun holds the door open for her, and she gives him an easy smile, to which he ducks his head, visibly out of his depth: Porco rolls his eyes as he follows her, not bothering with thanking Braun, and instead clicking his tongue in annoyance as he follows him.

“I want to get smashed,” declares Porco as soon as he sits down on the small sofa, the table they picked positioned to the far end of the room for maximum privacy. “So don’t bother telling me to stop, cos I won’t.”

“Fine by me,” quips Pieck, sitting opposite him, right in the middle of her seat, so that Braun has no choice but to sit beside Porco. He stops right before doing that, though, a tentative look in his eyes directed right at Porco.

“Can I sit?” he asks then, and Porco looks up at him as he spreads his thighs further, making himself comfortable.

“On my cock?” he jokes, Pieck snorting quietly to herself, and he even motions to it with both hands before adding, “yeah, go on.”

A hint of hesitation first, then Braun cracks a lopsided grin, slowly, a glint to his eyes that catches Porco off guard as he retorts, “looks uncomfortable, so no, thanks,” then he sits down beside him, spreading his legs as well, their knees bumping into each other so that Porco has to scoot aside to allow him some space, his lips parted in disbelief and a tinge of embarrassment.

Pieck laughs properly now, holding her stomach, even. “Good one,” she wheezes, “I didn’t expect that. Is the promise of alcohol this good that you even crack jokes, now?”

Braun loses all the edge he’s just shown, and opts for a quick, easy laugh that sounds fake even to Porco’s ears. “Yeah, could be.”

The conversation that follows is pretty much one-sided: Braun is nothing but a quiet presence by his side, as Porco chats the evening away with Pieck, drinks refilling over and over, not even a single drop wasted.

On the fourth round, everything spins, and Porco laughs more easily. Braun snorts at one of Pieck’s jokes and leans back in his seat, his cheekbones pink, hair all mussed up as he keeps running a hand through it every now and then. Pieck is starting to sound incoherent, too, her gaze swimming around the bar that is slowly becoming emptier as the night goes on.

“Wow, you’re drunk, Pokko,” she squeals after slurping the last of her drink, the glass clinking uncomfortably loud on the table. “Sooo drunk.”

“I’m not,” slurs Porco, who remembers only after another bout of laughing that he’s supposed to call her out for using that stupid nickname. “I’m the soberest sober at this table.”

“Say that again, but faster,” says Braun, out of the blue, his voice somewhat throatier, enriched by the alcohol that’s affecting him, too. Porco is not going down without a fight, so he doesn’t even question his sudden involvement as he does just that.

“Sobrere… sorbest… sobe- fuck off,” he sputters then, and when he laughs at the same time as Braun, no, together with Braun, he stops for a second and wonders- isn’t he pissed at him? Why are they laughing, then?

“Cute,” giggles Pieck. Then, her attention is snatched by something, or someone, judging by the way she sits up so suddenly she has to steel herself with both hands on the table. She looks insistently past Porco and Braun’s heads, then her lips open up in a silent gasp, and she clambers out of her seat on unsteady legs.

“She’s here! Sorry, boys, I’ve gotta meet up with someone,” she chuckles, then adds, her voice lower, “wish me luck, soldiers,” and walks away as Braun turns his head to follow her with his gaze, laughing from deep down his chest.

“She,” repeats Porco, the word sounding weird on his lips. “She. Who?”

“Her girlfriend,” sighs Braun, leaning back in his seat, “I think. Maybe not yet.”

Well, that explains everything. “Didn’t know she was into girls,” he grumbles.

Somehow, that sounds fun to Braun’s ears, because he starts laughing again as he rubs at both eyes. “You’re weird.”

“Wha-?”

“Ymir and Christa!” he exclaims then, turning his head to look at him, his half-lidded eyes roaming all over Porco’s face. “Like them, you know. Things you just know. You look at them and think, oh, they like each other. It’s how it works.”

Porco grimaces, like he hasn’t heard him clearly, like the room is full of noise. “I don’t get it. What does Ymir have to do with all of this.”

Braun gives himself a few seconds to think, then snorts, loudly. “Not the founder. I mean Christa’s Ymir. You know.”

“No, I don’t. You’re so drunk.”

“Nah. I’m happy.”

Those words echo in Porco’s brain for a while, as they fall silent, quietly giggling to themselves every now and then. “Happy,” he rasps then, leaning back in his seat as well, mirroring Braun’s position as he turns to look at him again. “You’re happy?”

Braun shrugs, not a hint of hesitation. “Just drunk, maybe. But I feel like I’m happy.”

“Mh.”

“Mh,” parrots Braun, raising his chin, Porco’s gaze falling on the sparse stubble on his neck, right below his chin. “We should drink, then talk. Like, always. So you won’t sock me in the face again.”

“We just did,” snorts Porco, spreading his legs out of habit and causing their knees to bump into each other again, “and we’re talking, aren’t we. I won’t punch you tonight.”

Braun imitates him, again, bumping his own knee into Porco’s, a lazy grin on his face. “I don’t trust you,” he murmurs, and Porco laughs it off, feeling like he has to pull at the collar of his own shirt for some reason.

They keep staring at each other, bumping knees rhythmically, until they both burst out laughing: eventually it dies out, Braun’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter as Porco bumps into him slowly, dramatically, complete with little noises coming out of his mouth.

“You need a haircut so bad,” drawls Porco when he stops, their little knee game starting to give him motion sickness. His gaze darts to Braun’s nape, where short hair curls up slightly because of the thin layer of sweat on his skin. Instead of answering right away, Braun rolls his neck, a groan falling from his lips- and Porco averts his eyes, his ears ringing. He must’ve drunk a bit too much than what he’s used to.

“No time for that,” he says eventually, running both hands up and down his own thighs, flattening the trousers there. Porco follows his motions, the size difference between them still stark, even with all of the muscle Braun’s lost since he came back.

“Yeah,” he nods, absentmindedly, and only then he realizes what he’s doing: openly checking out Braun, right under his nose. It must be the alcohol, because he cares relatively little about what this could entail. “What was that you said, before- about my cock?”

Braun scoffs, his eyes widening slightly. “When did I ever talk about… oh, that,” he corrects himself, his voice dipping lower than what Porco deems comfortable. “No biggie, just answered your joke with another joke.”

“Sounds like you meant it, though… I mean, it’s pretty comfortable,” tries Porco then, tilting his head to the side, and Braun’s eyes betray the easy, lazy smirk on his face when they set on the exposed skin of Porco’s neck- and he licks his lips, slowly.

With a sigh, the insides of Porco’s body appear to catch fire, a crackling pressure at the pit of his stomach that makes him lick his lips in answer, his elbow dropping from the backrest so he can set his hand down on the small sofa, in the little space between their thighs.

“I wouldn’t know,” grins Braun then, Porco’s gaze roaming all over the exposed tips of his teeth, now biting down his lower lip. “Who should I ask?”

Something warm and wet tugs harder at the inside of Porco’s stomach, and he exhales through parted lips to relieve some of that unknown tension. “Who do you think?”

Braun raises an eyebrow, pursing his lips in thought. “Hmm… don’t really know what you’ve been up to these last few years. Surely not Pieck.”

It should hurt, but Porco feels absolutely nothing: instead, he eggs Braun on, trying to pry the answer he truly wants from his thick, plump lips. Lips he can’t stop looking at. “That means no one’s ever had the honour to sit on me.”

“Poor thing,” sneers Braun, his gaze falling down to where Porco’s hand is resting, still unmoving. “Are you going to ask me to sit on your cock, then?”

There it is. “Dunno,” he shrugs, feigning disinterest as he pushes his groin outwards, just slightly, his body acting of its own accord. “I don’t think your arse can take it.”

The joke seems to fly right above Braun’s head but, eventually, he snorts loudly at it, dissolving in deep, inebriated giggles: as he laughs, he moves his legs to the side, just slightly, and he bumps into Porco’s hand with his thigh- he did it on purpose, he knows, Braun’s dancing around the same thing as Porco, after all.

“You look more like a doggy style kind of person, though,” blurts out Braun, a smirk staining his face, and Porco feels himself blush, hard, way harder than before- and here come the mental images, something he really doesn’t need, now. Something he doesn’t want at all.

But his hand starts creeping up the side of Braun’s thigh, resting on top of it, the warmth of his skin seeping through his trousers. He can hear Braun inhale sharply, as if he couldn’t believe Porco just did that, for real: but it’s happening, his palm stroking the hardness of Braun’s quad muscles there, his thighs spreading just a bit further, inviting his hand to slide further up his thigh, towards his groin. “Do I,” he asks then, Braun’s smirk finding its way back on his lips.

There’s a hundred things Porco wants to say, and more. His head spins, full of dirty jokes and obscenities he could say, that he wants to say- and he wants to know Braun’s answers to them, too. Right now nothing matters at all, not his hand on Braun’s thigh, not the warmth of his skin, not the way they’re staring into each other’s heavy-lidded eyes; he could drop his hand between his thighs, get a handful of his cock, and he just knows Braun would be all too willing to give it to him. The thought makes his head throb.

Truth is, though, drunken flirting aside- he wants to be able to talk to him as if they just met for the first time, strangers drinking together by chance, toying with the unknown, able to do everything all over again.

Porco realizes it then, that he’s just looking for easy, thoughtless comfort, and Braun needs none of that. It’s not something he should ask from him- the alcohol is starting to wear off, slowly but surely, and a blinding headache creeps its way around Porco’s skull as he confesses, dropping his voice so low he’s afraid Braun won’t hear him, “I think I miss you.”

Braun is still inebriated, so he draws his eyebrows together, lips returning to a straight, confused line. “But I’m here now.”

“No, no- I miss someone else,” he corrects himself, and he can’t stop the flood as he adds, “I miss that stupid looking boy who didn’t get my brother killed.”

The bubble bursts.

Porco removes his hand from Braun’s thigh, head pounding relentlessly as he winces in pain. He stays there, motionless, lips parted, glassy eyes staring off into space as if Porco wasn’t sitting directly in his line of sight.

Eventually, Braun croaks, “I’m sorry,” though Porco isn’t sure what he means by that. He might still be too drunk to realise what kind of conversation they just had- besides, he’d said it before, that he has no right to apologise.

They both refuse another round, waiting in uncomfortable silence until the barman politely tells them they should leave, what with it being closing time and all. Pieck is waiting for them outside, filling the quiet of the night with idle, drunken conversation as they walk back to the train station.

No words are exchanged, after that. Everything will disappear come next morning, a blinding headache the only remnant of what could’ve been a disastrous, vomit-inducing mistake.


	10. 10 - and help me understand the best i can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REINER BOOBS now that i have your attention, please mind that there's a somewhat graphic throwing up scene in this chapter!  
> double digit chapter! yay! i wish you all a happy new year, take care! see you in 2021 <3

The following morning, Porco’s head is splitting in two.

As he shoves both hands into the pockets of his jacket, protecting them from the cold morning wind that welcomes him after he steps off the train, he bumps into his half-empty pack of cigarettes, and he recoils: the mere thought of lighting one up makes him sick. He’s not going to drink that much ever again, either: last night got way too dangerous, way too fast.

Pieck hums quietly to herself, seemingly in perfect shape: Porco tries to ask her about her date, but she just dismisses the whole thing with a stilted smile.

“I drank too much, she didn’t like that,” she says, letting out a small sigh. “So I’m trying to quit bar-hopping. You’ll have to go alone with Reiner next time.”

“Never going to happen,” grunts Porco, grimacing as pain keeps piercing right through his skull. “It was the saddest night out ever.”

A necessary lie: it wasn’t sad, not in the slightest… it was just too much. Something he once wished to share with Pieck, before his attraction started to disappear fuck knows where; surely it all happened because of the alcohol, anyone could’ve been sitting in Braun’s place and there’d have been no difference whatsoever.

“You should start seeing someone while you can, Porco,” suggests Pieck, then. “We’re on borrowed time, might as well enjoy it as much as possible.”

“Please, stop,” he begs, bringing a hand to his forehead, the headache getting too strong to handle. “I don’t need you to play matchmaker. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Then why did you confess?”

“I didn’t confess-”

“You told me you liked me. Was that a lie?”

Porco considers his options. Back then it wasn’t a lie, he’s sure about that: when he was younger and he stole glances at Pieck every now and then, he was sure he could call that a crush, and sometimes he even thought of her, late at night. He did like her, at one point.

Now Porco’s not sure he does as much as he did.

“I was being honest,” he murmurs, feeling uneasy with the small group of people surrounding them- he wonders, a fleeting thought, where Braun could be. Probably lagging behind, dragging his boots and suffering from hangover as well. Anyway, he was saying…

“Then it’s all good,” interjects Pieck, wearing an easy smile that relieves Porco immediately. “I hope you find someone, eventually. No one wants to be alone all their life.”

Porco snorts, fixing his armband as they approach the gate of the internment zone, a small gathering of people ready to welcome them home. “I don’t know about that.”

Stealth isn’t Porco’s area of expertise, but he’s being sent on this particular mission anyway, much like other Marleyan special units being assigned wherever the army needs to fill the gaps, proper organization be damned.

“I knew this would happen,” sneers Commander Magath as they tread through thick southern vegetation, their boots squelching across muddy puddles, “they’re going to send you all over the continent to fight every pointless battle you can, how convenient. As if this bloody war wasn’t being fought mainly at sea- that’s where they should locate their resources, but to hell with common sense, am I right?”

Porco follows closely, his thighs starting to bother him. Braun, who was sent together with him, of course, keeps quiet by his side and checks their surroundings, no sign of fatigue on his face or his body. The Commander keeps raging about the sub-par organization skills of the Marleyan military, and while Porco thinks it’s nice of him to care this much about their abilities being thrown to the wind for missions of such minimal importance, he later realizes that he’s probably angry for not being the one in charge, as he should. He’s been pushing for a promotion for quite some time, and his accomplishments in the past two years and a half are nothing to scoff at.

“We can stop here. Now listen up,” he grunts, turning slowly, his breath labored as he glares at each and every one of them, Porco and Braun and the other five candidates who were sent with them. “We’re going to split up. Our target is the ammo dump near the river, at the base of the waterfall over there. We’ve got to destroy it before their southern assault unit can restock.”

He produces a map, stitched on cloth for maximum durability, out of his top coat: he opens it awkwardly, cursing while he’s at it, then Braun scoots forward and helps hold it up. The Commander mumbles a word of thanks, not even sparing him a glance, then resumes his explanation.

“This map is pretty approximative, and also pretty shit, but it’ll do. Candidates, you’ll be taking the stone path down this cliff, following my lead. We’ll scout the surroundings, since we’ll run into enemy units, that’s a given. You two,” he lifts his chin at Porco, then glances sideways at Braun, “you’re taking this other path, which is steeper but faster. With your Titans you should be able to make it down there in no time. In case anything happens we’re going to back you up, acting as snipers.”

A quick glare at the candidates, then a sigh. “We’ll try to, at least. These ones have got no field experience whatsoever. Good luck to us.”

The candidates release the tension with shy, scattered giggles, laced with nervousness, and Porco smirks despite himself.

They part after a few more words of warning from the Commander, Braun heading for the grassy path down the cliff, Porco following closely. The morning rain didn’t help, their boots sliding dangerously where the grass is thicker and overgrown, and it’s with exasperated sighs and curses that they make it halfway down the cliff, stopping to catch their breath and rest a few minutes.

“Fuck stealth missions,” declares Porco, his throat dry with all the panting. Braun chuckles drily, rummaging through his bag. “What do you got there? Booze?”

He clears his throat when Braun blinks up at him, his lips a straight line. He’s probably been reminded of their night out: Porco gathers that the way things went isn’t sitting well with him, either. “Water,” he answers eventually, taking out a small bottle and handing it to Porco.

“Are you kidding? Save it for yourself,” he snorts, straightening his back, ignoring the faint twinge of pain in his backside and thighs. “They’re not going to give you a medal for handing leftovers around, you know.”

“You’re thirsty,” points out Braun, in the most no-bullshit voice Porco’s ever heard. “Just take it.”

Porco makes it a point not to thank him, as he grabs the bottle and gulps the water down, lukewarm and smelling kind of old, but it still feels like a small miracle as it flows down his parched throat. “Wipe it before you drink,” he says as he hands it back to Braun.

“But it tastes so much better when spiked with saliva.”

It’s a remnant of that night, the easy, overblown flirting they engaged in: though it doesn’t feel as embarrassing now, and Porco scoffs, despite himself. It’s just to relieve the tension, it doesn’t mean anything. He finds a matching half smirk on Braun’s face, too. “Be my guest then.”

They spot the ammo dump, eventually, and stop to hide behind a thick bush of pointy, evergreen leaves. Braun checks their surroundings peeking from above the bush, being taller and all, and Porco keeps his head down, guarding their backs, knife ready in his front pocket.

“Clear,” murmurs Braun, shifting to the side as he tries to get a better look at the base of the waterfall. “River’s clear, too. No boats coming in.”

“Oi, give me the binoculars. I don’t trust you.”

Braun does as Porco tells him, moving aside so he can take a better look.

“So,” says Braun colloquially, clearly challenging him, “see anything in particular?”

“Fuck off. I could do without walking into their trap, thank you very much.”

“We’re not going to set it off until we fall right into it, anyway. I can go first if you’re too afraid.”

Porco shoves the binoculars back in Braun’s hands, without bothering to restrain his irritation. “I’m not a pussy, you know.”

In stark contrast with Porco’s whispered outburst, Braun hands his bag to Porco as he checks the laces of his boots, declaring, “I’m going then. I need your knife.”

“So much for stealth,” snorts Porco as he cuts the palm of Braun’s outstretched hand, instead of giving him the knife. “I’ll be right behind-”

“No, I’m carrying you down this cliff so you won’t have to shift,” interrupts Braun, advancing on his knees towards the edge of the cliff to plan his descent properly. “Who’s going to communicate with Commander Magath if we’re both in our Titans?”

“He can fuck off,” spits Porco, holding Braun’s bag anyway, “we’re going to take care of this on our own. It’s not like their stupid bullets are going to get us.”

“They could get your eyes to incapacitate you, then take advantage of your small size to capture you or worse. So, forget about that.”

Porco can’t believe his ears. “When the hell did you turn into a reliable strategist? You, of all people?”

Then, Braun turns around, and Porco tries his best not to widen his eyes too much: Braun is glaring at him, cold, authoritative. “I’m your superior,” he states then, voice unwavering, “you are to follow my orders without question.”

It’s revenge, Porco knows it: this way he can feel morally superior, he can shove aside some of the guilt he feels and oh, Porco hopes he feels lots of it, to the point of going mad. He breaks their stare-off, swallowing the defeat, a bitter taste in his mouth as Braun resumes his preparations, surely feeling so superior for having shut him up. Vice Captain my arse.

Braun leaps off the cliff, shifting in mid-air, the blinding spark of transformation casting harsh light on his surroundings, much like a rising sun. The Armored Titan slides down, hardening its hands and clawing at the side of the cliff to break his fall and allow Porco to jump off. Porco doesn’t waste a second, leaping off as well as he carries both their bags on his back: he lands on the Titan’s shoulder, holding tight on its armored skin as it resumes its descent, undisturbed. No enemy in sight, for now- maybe they’re waiting for the right moment to strike.

The Armored helps Porco down as he grabs its massive thumb: Braun’s being deliberately careful, he notices. Porco is about to tell him that he doesn’t suffer from motion sickness, but then his head spins as the Armored’s hand is lowered the ground, and he hesitates before hopping off.

Still no one in sight: Porco walks up to the entrance of the small shack, an old door guarding the explosives inside. It seems the enemy was here already, judging by the several footprints scattered around the entrance: Porco takes his chance anyway, pushing the door ajar with his boot, the Armored lying in wait right behind him.

Porco is about to walk inside, but he’s stopped by the Armored’s hand, closing around him in the blink of an eye, while a huge blast assaults his eardrums, so loud that he has to cover his ears and curl up on himself. Several other explosions follow, and the Armored shifts around Porco, its hand still protecting him from whatever is happening outside: it goes on for so long that Porco almost loses track of time, but eventually the huge hand is lifted, only for the other one to protect his blind spot, and the Armored looks down at him, its glowing eyes staring pointedly as if trying to make sure that Porco isn’t hurt.

Another explosion goes off: the Armored holds Porco in its own hands, cupped around him as it lifts him with little care before starting to run, huge blasts shaking the earth as it stomps forward, towards somewhere Porco can’t see. Eventually, the hands around him crack open, just a little, and the Armored puts him up against its neck, holding him in place with a single hand as it changes direction, now to the side, the explosions getting louder, closer. He hates not knowing what’s going on.

Porco is shoved from one side of his small enclosed space to the other as the Armored moves around, the explosions not bothering it: there’s loud noises, someone screaming, earth breaking and trees falling, judging from what Porco can hear, shots being fired, then the Armored roars, loudly, and it reverberates through Porco’s whole body as he holds tight to the hardened flesh of its neck.

He notices it’s almost sunset when the Armored moves its hand away from Porco, turning its massive head around, its teeth uncovered, eyes still glowing. Porco looks at its side profile, noticing just now how similar it is to Braun, and is shaken out of his reverie when it turns towards him, its look unreadable from behind armored eyes.

Where just a few minutes before was grass, and trees, and vegetation, there is now what Porco would consider wasteland, with small fires burning quietly here and there. Porco can see the remnants of the old shack blown to smithereens, mauled corpses lying around it, blood splattered all around: the snipers were probably hidden right behind it, waiting for them to lower their guard. If the Armored hadn’t protected him, Porco would’ve blown up with the shack.

The hardened nape of the Armored cracks, flesh is torn apart, and Braun emerges, still connected through thick ropes of Titan flesh clinging to the skin under his eyes. “Are you alright?” he asks, steam engulfing him, his forehead glowing with sweat. Porco nods, remembering only then to close his mouth, his lips still parted from before.

“Good. Let’s get out of here and regroup with the others.”

When Porco steps off the Armored’s hand, Braun makes it kneel down so he can jump off as well, the Titan slowly starting to decompose after that. His breathing is labored, he runs a hand through mussed hair, slicking it back with sweat: the Titan marks around his eyes are deep, carving their distinct pattern into his cheekbones.

“They knew we were coming,” observes Porco then, his eyes still studying the darker marks on Braun’s face, “and they wanted to blow us up. Where were those fuckers anyway? Couldn’t have been inside with all the explosives.”

“No, that’s exactly where they were,” Braun corrects him, turning his head towards what little is left of the shack, Porco’s gaze following his jawline down to what’s visible of his neck, “at least a couple of them. Someone had to set off the explosives at the right time, the others were hiding around here, on the cliffs. If anything went wrong they had to shoot and set them off from a distance.”

Porco can’t help but think that, if Braun hadn’t convinced him not to shift, he would have-

“…thanks,” he grumbles then, barely a murmur, and Braun doesn’t turn around to acknowledge his words. He’s still squinting while looking around, as if someone else could be lying in wait.

“Commander Magath and the others are probably almost here,” he considers, and only now he spares Porco a glance, hand outstretched so he can get his bag back. He didn’t hear him.

Porco masks a grimace with a forced sigh, and slings the bag off his shoulder, handing it back to Braun as they walk towards the base of the cliff, right where the stony path ends, so they can meet up with the rest of the unit.

“Fuckers,” barks Commander Magath, half-laughing, later in the evening when they’re all sitting around the fire, listening to Porco’s detailed report. “Since when do they plan this much ahead? I’m impressed.”

“They were listening, maybe,” points out one of the younger candidates, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose with some awkwardness to it, “since they were hiding in the trees, and all… Commander.”

Porco can’t stop himself from snorting, and Braun follows suit- though his half smile appears to be genuine. He leans forward then, legs crossed as always, and smacks a hand on the kid’s head so he can ruffle his hair: they probably know each other already. The kid blushes hard, swatting Braun’s hand away half-heartedly.

“You’re probably right, Udo,” grumbles Commander Magath, his eyes unblinking as he observes Braun’s playfulness with the younger cadets. “And you didn’t hear me say that word a minute ago. It’s an order.”

“I didn’t hear you call them fu- ahem, I didn’t hear a-anything, Sir! Mister Braun, please stop it!”

Commander Magath’s curt nod signals the end of the conversation. “Let’s get some rest, so we can get back before dawn. Dismissed.”

“Dismissed,” mimicks another kid, and the boy called Udo shuts him up, loudly, but the Commander doesn’t seem to notice: he’s too busy digging in his pocket, looking for something. Porco knows those motions, the urgency in his eyes, and takes out his pack of cigarettes to offer him his second-to-last one. He should’ve brought more, he reckons.

Commander Magath thanks him with a grunt, his cheeks hollowing around the cigarette as Porco lights it up for him: normally he would light one for himself, too, but since it’s his last one he’s going to save it for tomorrow. Braun is sitting up to usher the kids into their sleeping bags, ignoring weak protests that come with half-lidded eyes and sleepy shrill voices: ten minutes after, they’re all huddled up together, sleeping peacefully as if they were out on a common field trip.

“It’s going to get cold in here, tonight. Stay close to them or they’ll freeze their little arses off. I’ll stand guard then get some sleep too,” mumbles the Commander, voice thick with sleep and exhaustion. Braun nods, bidding him goodnight and setting his sleeping bag down, close to the kids, making sure not to wake them up as he slips inside it: biting the inside of his cheek, Porco follows his example, setting down his own right near Braun’s.

“You better keep your hands off,” grumbles Porco as he slips inside it, Braun turning his head to glance at him, his sharp features lit by the light of the small fire.

“Not a cuddler?” yawns Braun, and his voice seems to be smiling, even if his face most definitely isn’t.

“Piss off.”

It’s pitch dark when Porco wakes up, an indefinite amount of time later: the fire’s still going, and Commander Magath’s snoring is the only thing that fills the silence around them. Porco blinks the sleep away from his eyes, rubbing at them with his free hand: he’s lying on his side, towards Braun’s back, and he can see his shoulder rising and falling rhythmically at a slow pace that confirms his being asleep.

They’re unnecessarily close: Porco must have shifted towards him in his sleep, his bag pressed up against Braun’s. Thankfully they’re thick enough to prevent him from having Braun’s arse all over his groin.

Porco sighs.

Braun still needs that damn haircut: the short hair on the back of his head is curled up with sweat, especially behind his ear, and it’s a darker blond than Porco remembers. He can smell something, being so close to him- it’s not sweat, it’s too heady, and Porco has to lean forward slightly so he can smell it properly, his brain numb with lack of sleep as he grazes Braun’s hair with the tip of his nose, inhaling.

He smells good. Porco moves to the side, towards his ear, now inhaling near the fold behind it where the skin is thicker, the smell stronger. He can’t quite describe it, it’s skin and sweat and gunpowder and the inside of his Titan all at once, and Porco finds himself drawn to it, unable to explain to himself just what is he doing, right now, his lips parting of their own accord as he inhales, again, his lungs filled with Braun’s smell, a traitorous hand snaking down towards his groin, hovering on his inner thigh, hesitating, before he cups himself with trembling fingers.

A fleeting thought- their night out, the suggestive words darting back and forth at each other, Braun’s lips wet with alcohol, his neck exposed after he tugged down the collar of his uniform.

Porco gasps quietly, the heel of his hand pushing down just how he likes it, unable to stop himself, his nostrils filled with Braun’s heady scent-

Commander Magath grumbles in his sleep, audibly turning around, and Porco freezes. He tries to slow down his erratic breathing, his whole body still, and when he hears the Commander’s snoring again he backs away from Braun, tearing his hand off his bulge as if it could catch fire any moment. What was he thinking? They’re not alone, for fuck’s sake- and even if they were, it’s just been a while since he last wanked. That’s all.

Later, Porco wakes up again, in a frenzy, covered in sweat. Few minutes have passed, he’s pretty sure of it, but the dream he’d just had felt like an endless nightmare.

He can only remember vague flashes of it- a small, short girl, her blond hair all mussed up and covered in a slimy clear substance, her cheek puffed up by a Titan’s hand around her, its index finger patting the top of her head softly; a can of tinned food, held in a hand that he knows is not his, but can’t recognize, the skin darker and softer there, and Braun’s deep yet boyish voice that calls, “Ymir”- then he’s chained up at the wrists, and he’s looking down from the pedestal, he sees himself, dressed in a tunic, his eyes wide, his body so thin it could disappear, fear in every fiber of his being- and he starts shivering, hard.

It’s her, the girl he ate, the girl who ate Marcel. Her memories.

There’s a different memory that swims back to the surface, now, Porco’s breathing growing faster by the second, a metallic taste flooding his mouth, his gums stinging, and he retches- he remembers, more than anything, flesh breaking under his teeth, a strangled scream, the earthy smell of grass in the morning, burnt wood, a fire that had been put out a few moments before, someone running away from there, screaming, then more flesh breaks, blood splashes down the throat-

Now vomit fills his mouth.

Porco clambers out of his sleeping bag, running towards the nearby river while trying not to swallow anything with all he’s got, then empties the contents of his mouth and stomach in it: he cries, hot tears filling his eyes as he tries to get everything out of his body, nails digging and scratching at the ground, his spine shaken by shivers so strong they scare him.

As soon as he’s done, he shoves both hands into the water and tries to drink as much as he can, to flush the horrendous taste out of his mouth, all while he wipes both his eyes and nose, his whole face a downright mess- and he can’t stop crying, his voice bottled up at the back of his throat, a broken, low wail coming out only when he gets some water in his nose by mistake, nostrils burning as he sits back and runs both hands through his hair, his stomach quivering increasingly fast under his shirt, now plastered all over his sweaty back.

When it dawns on him, eventually, knowledge manifesting in Porco’s mind through actual words he can think of, he cries harder, drawing his knees together as he hugs them to his chest, hiding his face between his crossed arms: he closes up on himself, just like he did when he cried himself to sleep, all those years ago- that’s what he saw, then.

He ate his own brother. He ate Marcel, through that girl’s memories.

Oh, he feels like throwing up again.

All of a sudden, Porco hears footsteps treading lightly, coming towards him: he exhales, shakily, trying to compose himself the best he can, though he knows who it is. There’s only one person in their squad who’d have trouble sleeping at night, just like him.

“Galliard?” grunts Braun, voice thick with sleep, and Porco rubs at one eye with the heel of his hand to wipe away more incoming tears. “What-”

“Fuck off,” spits Porco, perhaps louder than he intended, and he curls up on himself even tighter than before. He doesn’t miss Braun’s little hum: he steps forward, as if he could dare to ignore Porco’s order, to get a better look at him perhaps, though Porco is not going to look back at him. Instead, he buries his face further between his arms, and he can’t hide how hard he’s trembling any longer.

“Bad dreams?”

What do you care, he’d love to tell him: Braun looking out for Porco would just mean that he feels guilty and wants to patch things up, even though it’s damn near impossible- how do you fix something like that? Forgiveness will always be out of the question, they both know it, so what the fuck does he want from him?

When Braun realizes he isn’t going to get any answer from Porco, he sits down next to him, though he keeps his distance: Porco expects him to start talking, and he waits, as his breath slows down, he waits, and waits, but Braun never speaks up. Eventually, curiosity takes the upper hand, and Porco raises his head slightly, so he can glance sideways at him: Braun’s just sitting there, legs crossed, staring off into the distance, at nothing in particular. He’s not cold, it seems, though he’s wearing his uniform in full, much like Porco.

“Why are you still here,” he rasps, teeth chattering, and Braun’s impeccably straight back doesn’t budge as he blinks, rapidly, as if Porco startled him.

“In case you need someone,” is Braun’s reply, rolling off his tongue easily.

Porco sniffs, his bottom lip quivering as he forces his voice out, “I don’t need anyone. I don’t need you.”

He needs Marcel. Though there’s no way those words are ever going to leave his mouth, Braun seems to have heard them anyway, because he closes his eyes, a small grimace distorting his features, hard, and it’s even grotesque, his back bows- and then it’s gone, he straightens his shoulders, exhales.

“…would it help if I apologised?” he tries, uncertain, and when he opens his eyes again Porco can see the exhaustion clearly- there’s a few wrinkles around them, something he never noticed. He hasn’t been sleeping well for a long while, apparently.

That’s what he deserves.

“It’s not going to make my brother come back, is it,” he hisses, though his voice breaks halfway through, and he has to tear his gaze away from Braun: he can’t bear to look at him while in this state. He doesn’t want Braun to see him at his lowest.

“No, it’s not,” hums Braun, his voice booming in the quiet of the night.

It comes out before Porco can stop himself, an involuntary reflex, “get lost, then- just get the fuck out of my sight if you’re not going to help.”

No answer, no reaction, at first.

Then Braun sighs, and it’s long, drawn out, a grimace clear as day on his face as he stands back up- and Porco’s heart skips a beat, startled: he’s walking away from him, just like Porco told him to.

 _I saw her eating Marcel_ , he wants to say, all of a sudden: _you were there too, weren’t you_ , and then, _did you run away like a coward, just like that?_ , but also, _I do need someone, don’t go_.

Though he says nothing at all, and watches Braun as he walks back to the camp, leaving him alone, because Porco said it himself, he doesn’t need anyone and he doesn’t need him, of all people.

His heart feels heavy as he stands up on shaky legs, sometime after that: it drags him down, makes him feel small and pathetic.

When he gets back to the camp everyone is still asleep, his bag in the same spot where he left it before, right beside Braun’s. He’s passed out already, it seems, because he doesn’t budge when Porco slips into his own sleeping bag, trying not to wake anyone up. This time it’s his back that is pressed up against Braun’s. It’s fine.

There’s a hint of warmth seeping through, and Porco welcomes it. He tries to shift back a bit, to steal more warmth from Braun’s sleeping form, and soon it lulls him to sleep. He won’t question it.


	11. 11 - and no one calls us to move on and no one forces down our eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here, keep it, i don't want to look at this chapter anymore, editing it gave me psoriasis  
> this one's kinda long, you've been warned, also canon dialogues from the manga have been reworked to give them a more natural feel, can't have porco talk like he just came out of a pretentiously translated final fantasy game can we  
> enjoy <3

On the few missions they share in the following year, Porco makes it a point to ignore Braun at every turn: he’s not worth his time anyway when there’s more important things to worry about, now that the war is almost over, or so it seems. The Allied Forces, now pushed into a corner, are relying completely on their last stronghold- Fort Slava, to the far north where their naval station is situated and where most of the Marleyan naval fleets where destroyed in a last ditch attempt to capture it last month, too.

When they’re gathered in Zeke’s office for the briefing, Porco barely even acknowledges Braun’s presence. He’s mastered this particular skill over the last months, their interactions stilted and next to nonexistent: Marcel’s memories are still nowhere to be seen, and the only way he can shoulder the frustration is by taking it out on Braun. It’s his fault, after all, he’s not forgotten about it, it just means he’s learnt how to be polite on the outside while screaming bloody murder on the inside.

He stands beside Pieck at all times, out of habit: whatever he felt for her has vanished over the years, but she still represents his anchor, a friend he can talk to- though he makes no mention of seeing Ymir’s memories to her. He’s never talked about that to anyone, at least not in detail. Braun doesn’t count.

They’ve been more frequent lately, most of them involving a girl, Christa, or Historia, sometimes she’s called with a different name. It’s just glimpses of their interactions, but he can see how deep Ymir cared for her, and Porco feels more and more like he’s intruding in someone’s private space: another reason why his smoking habit has gotten worse, and also why he can chug down a full bottle of wine without consequences, by now.

It’s ironic that Marcel, none other than his own brother, is still nowhere to be seen even though whatever’s left of him is living on inside Porco: he’s a distant memory, his good qualities and faults clouded by Porco’s outdated, childlike affection. He’s slowly getting away from Porco, vanishing into thin air, and it hurts more than he’d like to admit.

He won't think about that specific memory, the cruelest one. He won't. He's getting better at ignoring it, and he's almost forgotten about the taste and smell of his brother's blood. Almost.

Zeke is still explaining at length their plan to take the fort. Most of it flew right over Porco’s head, and he’s been getting increasingly frustrated just sitting there, unable to smoke a quick one, or do something proactive to prevent from feeling down yet again. Pieck bumps into him with her elbow, gently, noticing his glassy stare as Zeke moves his fingers around on the map, and he reckons he should probably make an effort and listen.

Porco nods at whatever he’s saying. He’ll just ask Pieck about it later.

“Mum? Where’s the red?”

She doesn’t answer: her hearing’s been getting worse lately, and Porco has to repeat himself a few times, but this is not the case. He can see it in the way Mum’s shoulders go rigid as she does the dishes, lips drawn together in a tight line. “Mum?”

“Your father decided against buying it,” she says, her voice clipped, “because all you do when you're home is drink and smoke.”

Porco stands there, stunned by her words, and only after she puts the dishes down with more strength than usual he asks, “what’s wrong with that? You’ve never said anything to Dad about it, and he’s drinking a lot too.”

No answer. Porco closes the empty cupboard with a sigh, taking a glass from the sink under Mum’s glare: he notices, and rolls his eyes despite himself. “Can I get some water at least?”

“Sure,” she says, louder, her voice wavering, “you’re just going to go buy it yourself anyway, aren’t you? The wine, the cigarettes… as if we could afford them!"

“What,” stutters Porco, the insides of his stomach bristling at those accusations. “What the hell happened while I was out-”

“What do you think!” shrieks Mum, now, a dish falling down into the empty sink, breaking on impact, “most of the money we get is wasted on alcohol and smoke! Your father’s leg isn’t getting better, he can’t work a full day anymore, and it’s not enough- what you get is not enough!”

Porco opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Mum can’t be stopped as she adds, her face red, eyes full of tears, “stop doing that! Stop acting like every other soldier, and try to be more responsible, more like-”

She’s about to say Marcel, Porco knows, it’s a habit she never really grew out of; a sob bursts out of her, shaking her whole body as she goes beyond any of Porco’s expectations when she murmurs, voice cracking, “try to be more like Vice Captain Braun, please,” and there she is, full on crying, small and pathetic, the roots of her hair a dirty shade of grey that Dad doesn’t like anymore.

Porco clenches the glass, tightly. “What does he have to do with any of this,” he murmurs, bitterness splashing on his tongue.

“He has his faults,” she sobs, hugging herself, not used to speak her mind out loud, “but he’s worked hard ever since. He’s our pride now. Everyone is counting on him… and you’re just there, drinking and smoking and not even bothering with anything else.”

“What should I bother with? With the kids, like he does?” spits Porco, his cheeks warm like he suddenly came down with the flu, “I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m saving our homeland every single time I go out-”

“I want to look at you and think I’ve done a good job bringing you up,” she cries louder, her words hard to make out between sobs, “stop with those stupid cigarettes, with the wine… just stop it, Porco. This isn't you..."

It’s like nothing he does matters- he risks his life every single day, he’s shortened his own lifespan just to give them a better life, and this is what he gets in return. This is how Mum thanks him, calling him a failure, a drunkard, a disgrace, worse than Braun, who even got forgiven for getting two of their comrades killed and one kidnapped. For getting Marcel killed.

“Now just go out, get out of here,” sobs Mum, again, rubbing at her eyes, still shaking, crumbling before him, “I need to calm down before your father comes home, he can’t see me like this.”

He knows she’s right. It hurts, a lot, even. Too much to even answer her.

Porco keeps quiet and does just that, walks out, hands shaking as he grabs the doorknob, Mum still crying in the kitchen, where she can't seem to get out of.

That night, another one of Ymir’s memories comes to him in a dream.

She’s almost as tall as him, he finds, already used to her line of vision: the girl that always appears in her memories, Historia, is sitting beside her. Porco guesses they’re resting for the night in what looks like a tower, judging by the starry sky outside that Ymir glances at, through the small window on the wall, and there's other people with them, all sitting around a small fire. Some of the others are wearing a uniform Porco is starting to be familiar with, several belts tightened around their legs, white and blue wings sewn on the front pocket of their short, light brown jackets: he wishes Ymir glanced around more at that time, so he could get a better look, bored curiosity winning over pointed disinterest.

“Thieves have been here recently, you say,” observes Ymir aloud then, her voice sharp and rough just like Porco remembers from back then, and Historia’s head snaps up as she stares at Ymir, lips parted. “Time for exploration, then.”

“Ymir,” she calls, her shrill voice causing a reaction all over Ymir’s body that Porco has felt before, he thinks, “where are you going?”

“Relax, Christa,” she scoffs, Porco weirded out by this double-name business, “I’m not tailing it. Just want to snoop around a little bit.”

“Okay,” she concedes, hugging her knees tighter to her chest, and as Ymir walks off towards the nearby flight of stairs, Porco sees them: Bertolt, sitting down with his back to the wall, looking exactly like he did when he was twelve, only a lot taller than that; and Braun, his legs crossed as always, no sign of stubble on his chin, his hair shorter, his body bulkier, as he glances up at Ymir for a split second.

Once she’s walked all the way down the stairs, Ymir kicks open the old door there, coughing as the dust settles. Holding up the candle she brought with her, she opens the crate in the corner of the small room and starts rummaging through its contents, her eyes sharp as she shoves aside cobwebs and dead bugs without even flinching.

Someone walks in, then, and Ymir glances towards the door.

“What are you doing, Ymir?”

Braun’s voice, a bit more boyish than his current one, reverberates through the small room, its echo stirring something deep within Porco. He appears to have been even a bit shorter, back here: his demeanor is completely different as he holds the door open, his back straight, staring down at Ymir with what Porco interprets as suspicion.

She’s a sarcastic one, her answer spoken in a depreciative tone as she says, “creeping into a girl’s room at night, Reiner? That’s surprising… you don’t look like someone who’s interested in women.”

To Porco’s genuine wonder, Braun takes the sarcasm well and throws it right back at her, complete with a lopsided grin that has no effect on Ymir, but Porco can feel his stomach shrink at that. “Yeah,” he hums, “and you don’t look like someone who’s interested in men, either.”

“Hah,” scoffs Ymir, and now the memory gets fuzzier, as Braun takes his hand off the doorknob and crosses his arms on his chest, thanking her for whatever she said before to someone named Connie, about his mother- something Porco isn’t interested in, anyway. He gets a lightning-quick vision of tinned food in Ymir’s hand, Marleyan writing printed on it- then he wakes up, sweat gluing the sheets to his back, his breathing labored.

Zeke joins him in the courtyard the following morning, both of them leaning back against the wall, lit cigarettes held between their lips. Colt Grice is there, too: he’s slowly become Zeke’s shadow, complete with a genuine interest in baseball that leaves Porco snorting at the thought.

“How’s your younger brother doing?” asks Zeke, staring off into the distance at the hand-to-hand combat session of the morning. Colt’s brother is there, too: Falco is the tallest among his little group of friends, but not the one with the best results. Of all people who could’ve overshadowed him, it had to be Braun’s little cousin.

“Oh, he’s getting better,” answers Colt, soft-spoken, his voice soothing. “Though he’s got kind of an inferiority complex…”

An easy laugh bursts out of Zeke’s lips, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his ears as he says, “he’s setting himself up for disappointment if he thinks he’s going to get on Gabi’s level anytime soon. That girl is something else.”

Colt agrees with a quiet hum, perhaps more out of politeness, as he turns to look at Gabi Braun herself: she knocks Falco down on his arse for the third time in the span of ten minutes. “Yeah, she is.”

“He’s not getting a Titan then,” sighs Porco matter-of-factly, Colt’s head snapping towards him, as if he forgot he was standing there too. “Average is not enough. You’d have to be outstanding to get selected.”

“Now, now, Porco. Don’t scare my successor off, will you,” chides Zeke, amusement dripping from his words as Colt looks positively taken aback. “They’ve still got a long way to go.”

Porco draws his eyebrows together, tossing the butt of his cigarette to step on it. “Aren’t they nominating Braun’s successor after this mission?”

“Who knows,” shrugs Zeke, blowing the smoke out of his nose. “Reiner’s only got a couple of years left. They’re taking their sweet time.”

Before interjecting, Colt clears his throat to make sure he’s not interrupting anyone, and Porco distantly wonders if his parents taught him to do that. “The war will be over after we take the fort anyway… it is suspicious. Maybe they’re planning something.”

At those words, Zeke scoffs, offering Colt a long, inquisitive stare as he adds, “wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest. War is won by those who plan ahead, is what they say.”

Porco doesn’t know what to offer to the conversation at this point, so he stays silent, glancing at Falco and Gabi as the instructor splits them up before the fourth rematch.

“I’m home,” he announces, closing the door behind him. It’s almost dark outside, well before curfew, and Dad’s head snaps towards him as Porco walks into the kitchen, not meeting his gaze.

“You’re early,” he grunts, going back to reading the newspaper, squinting at the words printed there, too small for his faulty vision. “Rain’s gonna piss down on us tomorrow, then.”

“Never heard that one before. Where’s Mum,” sighs Porco, pulling his chair backwards so he can flop down on it.

They barely talk lately, and it’s mostly to ask where Mum has gone, or if there’s an open bottle of red lying around. Porco spots a glass full of water near Dad’s arm, and it looks abandoned, like he doesn’t ever remember pouring it: usually there’d be wine in it, gone in the blink of an eye, glass refilled again and again until the bottle lies there, empty, waiting for Mum to be thrown in the garbage. “Dunno,” he answers, eventually, as he tries to make out what’s written in the lower column of his paper.

It goes on like that for several minutes: nothing but silence between them, Porco staring off into space, daydreaming. He’s not toying with a glass of wine that he keeps refilling, he’s not playing with his lighter, fidgeting with his pack of cigarettes- it’s in the left pocket of his jacket now, not in the right one as usual, its light weight throwing him off, reminding him that it’s wrong, that it makes Mum upset, and he doesn’t need any more tension at home, too.

He’s given up most of his life to help them, it's not something everyone would be able to do, so it only stands to reason that he could be able to quit smoking, too. There's no comparison whatsoever between the two, how hard could it be? Plus, his parents are worth the fight. They deserve to be happy, after losing Marcel. It’s the least Porco could do, he reasons.

Eventually, Mum comes back home: her cheeks are red thanks to the cold evening wind, and she throws her old coat on the hanger, walking in the kitchen without sparing a glance to both of them. Porco’s gaze keeps darting from Mum to Dad, and it hits him, just now- without the constant haze of alcohol, the ever-present urge of smoking, that he’s living with people who consider the other to be a stranger.

He hopes he can be the exception, he's still their son after all, with all his faults and fuck-ups; that train of thought is lost, then, when Mum starts grabbing pots and pans to make dinner, and Dad barely acknowledges the noise she’s making, not even lifting the newspaper from the table as she cleans it sloppily with a towel, as if she didn't want to.

Perhaps it’s stupid of him to notice it just now, when his own value as their only son is being discussed: it’s always ‘your mother’ and ‘your father’, no first names, no names at all, even- and they only want to know where the other’s been, who they talked to, who they’ve been seeing. As if they wished they could be with someone else, to get a second chance. To be happier elsewhere, away from Porco.

A fleeting thought- does Braun feel like this with his mother, too? Or does she respect him, love him, no matter what?

When Porco gets up to walk to his bedroom he fishes the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one up as he opens the window to let the smoke out.

They’re not worth the fight, after all. He should have known.

“Mister Galliard!”

Udo has taken a very dangerous liking to Porco: the kid lately has been popping out of every corner to wish him a good morning, afternoon and evening every single day he can. Today he’s followed by Zofia, a warrior candidate with a constant look in her eyes that promises trouble and chaos: they even salute him, of all things, and he snorts more out of embarrassment than laughter.

“Hey there,” he greets back, both of them bouncing on the balls of their feet as he stops to make conversation. “No morning run today?”

Zofia answers first, her little smirk in place, “the instructor’s out on field practice with the younger kids. So we skipped it.”

This time, Porco laughs more openly, at a loss for words: he doesn't think he's that good with kids, though it seems like he can do no wrong in their eyes, judging by their reactions. He tries to impart them a little lesson then, eyeing them as he says, “if we ever tried to do that back then, we’d get scolded. A lot, even.”

Of course, the situation was very different: now things are laid back, the candidates getting more advanced practice by actually fighting on the front lines, risking their lives with next to no concern. That's probably why Udo chuckles, delighted by how much of a bad lad he’s being, and Zofia whistles at Porco’s remark, seemingly unimpressed.

“We, uh, wanted to ask,” starts Udo then, Zofia turning her head to stare at him, “like… if you aren’t busy, and all, if you could come with us today, because… uh-”

“Udo wants to go buy a present for his mum, but he isn’t allowed out of the internment zone without an adult accompanying him, so he wanted to ask you,” explains then Zofia, not a hint of hesitation, as Udo starts spluttering out of embarrassment. Porco would do the same, honestly: he settles for having an internal breakdown. He can’t believe they went out of their own way to get Porco, of all people, and expect him to shoulder such a responsibility.

“…isn’t there someone else who can get you there? Like…”

As expected, Udo’s face starts falling: Zofia is quick to interrupt him though. “if you mean Reiner, he already went with Gabi and Falco.”

“All because Zofia was late, and Gabi doesn’t like to wait,” precises Udo, resentment clear in his voice, to which Zofia’s grin only grows wider.

Porco sighs, though he finds himself smiling as he accepts, their little faces lighting up: they even take him by the hand as they walk up to the gate, Porco genuinely feeling out of his depth.

“What were you thinking of getting her?” he asks once they get past the guards, “it’s a birthday present, I guess?”

Zofia tugs on Porco’s hand, wearing a little frown as she corrects him. “It’s Mother’s Day tomorrow, Mister Galliard. Did you forget?”

“Oh.” _Shit_. “No, of course, I was just-”

“He forgot,” declares Udo, his tone overly somber, “we share the same goal then, Mister Galliard.”

“I didn’t forget, I-”

“Lies,” now it’s Zofia who plays the dramatic card, staring straight ahead in a rather good impression of Commander Magath when he’s pissed off, “let us find a present for your mum too, for our motherland’s sake.”

Porco laughs at that, at the whole situation really: he’s being dragged around by two kids who just reminded him of Mother’s Day, kids who uncovered his pathetic lie because of course he forgot, kids who are going to help him save face with Mum for what it’s worth.

There’s warmth inside him, now, as Zofia steers him to the right, towards the cheaper stalls. “What does your mum like, Udo?”

He scrunches his face up in thought, still holding Porco’s hand tightly. “Her favourite scarf is kinda old, and it probably smells… she needs a new one, I think.”

“A scarf? It’s spring.”

“It’ll be useful in autumn!”

Porco tries to offer his opinion, mumbling, “I think it’s a good present, she’ll appreciate that,” and just like he’s predicted, Udo’s face lights up, and even Zofia’s: apparently if Porco says it’s good, then it’s good for real.

“Well, they’re not selling scarves here,” pipes up a rough voice behind them, and Porco is taken aback, as always- whenever Gabi Braun speaks, it’s like hearing her twelve year old cousin.

“Gabi!” sputters Udo, turning around together with Zofia, causing Porco to almost lose his balance: Gabi is grinning up at him, her eyes wide and unblinking, both arms folded behind her back.

“Good morning, Mister Galliard,” she greets then, her tone almost always sounding mocking to his ears, and Porco nods, an easy smile that he hopes is enough.

“Are you walking around alone?” wheezes Udo, letting go of Porco’s hand and grabbing Gabi by the shoulders, “you have to be careful- if they find you here, unsupervised, they’re going to-”

“Oh, relax,” she groans, rolling her eyes, “no one’s going to jail me up for that. Reiner and Falco are right there, see?”

Porco follows Gabi’s finger as she points somewhere behind her: he sees Braun and Falco checking something at the previous stall, both of their faces scrunched up in concentration as they assess the goods there, the merchant probably getting ready to talk them into buying something useless and too expensive. Gabi starts chatting with Udo and Zofia, so Porco tunes them out and observes with a grimace how the merchant bends down, looking directly at Falco and pointing at something, perfectly aware of Falco’s growing embarrassment. He’s going to take his wallet out any minute and give into it, buying a piss-poor excuse of a present for his mum, and-

Except Braun knows that game, with how many times he’s fallen for it when he was younger; he steals the merchant’s attention, showing the lopsided smirk that is a constant in Ymir’s memories, and when the merchant blushes visibly Porco knows he’s done it. He can’t believe his eyes: he’s gotten away with flirting, of all things, and as soon as he ushers Falco forward the smirk vanishes, just like that, replaced by his usual tight-lipped expression that Porco knows well.

Falco’s face lights up at seeing the others, and he rushes forward, offering Porco a small yet polite smile. “Morning, Mister Galliard,” he recites, and Porco holds a hand up, his eyebrows raising as Gabi hits him with her elbow.

“How polite, are you sucking up to him? You think that’s gonna get you better grades?” she provokes, and Falco frowns, embarrassed by Udo and Zofia’s chuckles.

“Galliard,” says then Braun, stopping right there as Gabi grins up at him, her eyes positively glowing whenever she sees her cousin.

“Braun,” answers Porco, clicking his tongue. He can’t help it.

They end up walking together as the children lead their small group, polite silence between them, and it’s Braun who often talks them into not buying this or that, because it’s too expensive, or not suitable, and so on and so forth. Porco finds himself admiring his patience with kids, he’s definitely used to being around them, his lips curving into a smile whenever they ask his opinion or even glance up at him every now and then, just to make sure he’s still there. Looks like he's a hero to them as well, good for him.

“Got something for your mum?” asks then Porco, to remind Braun that he’s here, too: if he has to tag along he might as well make the best of it.

Braun gives himself a few seconds to think, then answers in the flattest tone he can muster, “my undying faith to the great nation of Marley. Only the best for her.”

The joke flies right over Porco’s head, at first: he didn't expect this reaction at all. He snorts so loudly that Falco turns around and stares, confused, until Gabi shoves him aside so he can listen to her exclusively. Braun snorts, too, and the way his cheekbones shoot up suits his profile, thinks Porco. He hasn’t seen him do that in quite some time.

“What about you?” he asks then, and Porco’s face falls. Thankfully, before he can answer, Udo tugs at the sleeve of Porco’s jacket, his eyes glowing as he stops dead in his tracks, their whole group coming to a halt.

“I found them, Mister Galliard! Scarves!” he announces then, and Porco smiles back, genuinely glad he’s found what he was looking for: the stall where they stopped has scarves of every length, weight and colour, and they all start searching for the perfect pick.

“There,” says Braun then, pointing towards a dark red, thick muffler. “I’d pick that one.”

“Really?” asks Udo, looking up at Porco to get confirmation from both adults. “Is she going to like it?”

Porco shrugs, now all the children staring up at him, waiting. “I guess so, yeah. It’s a good colour.”

Udo grins at his words, immediately looking for his wallet: but Braun is faster to take out his own, half-smiling down at him, causing Udo to blush all over his face and down his neck.

“It’ll go well with her red armband when she’ll get it,” says Falco as they walk back later, each of them holding their presents in hand.

“If she’ll get it,” contradicts Gabi, bumping into Braun’s arm and sneering, “because I’m going to inherit the Armored.”

They start bickering as expected, as kids do, but Porco isn’t listening: he’s still throwing glances here and there, trying to think of something to get for Mum, his mind completely blank. Braun must have noticed, because he stares down at him, and Porco thinks he’s definitely gotten a bit taller since he came back, the difference wasn’t this stark in Ymir’s memories. “Found nothing?”

Porco sighs, pursing his lips forward in annoyance. “Nope.”

“What did you get her last year?”

“Can’t remember. I think I wasn’t even home last spring.”

They lag behind, keeping their voices down so they won’t interrupt the kids. “I never got her anything for Mother’s Day,” reveals then Braun, and Porco averts his eyes, feeling like they’re treading into personal territory, something he’s definitely not interested in when it comes to Braun. “It’s not something she bothers with.”

“I’m glad,” offers Porco, for lack of better answers. “Saves you the effort.”

“Yeah, it does.”

It comes out of Porco’s lips before he can stop himself: “I’ve seen Ymir’s memories, again,” he sighs, and Braun’s step falters, his eyes widening at those words.

“…what did you see?”

“Nothing worth mentioning,” lies Porco, “just… meaningless little conversations. And that girl she liked. She shows up a lot.”

Braun softens at those words, a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. “Of course. Ymir really loved her.”

He finds himself wondering what memories will see the one who’ll inherit the Jaw Titan from him: nothing stands out, nothing at all. Porco sighs at that fleeting thought, a frown distorting his face, cold seeping into his stomach. The kids have been wishing him a good morning all day, but it’s turning out to be one of the shittiest days he’s had lately.

When they get back to the internment zone it’s almost lunchtime: Gabi tugs at Braun’s sleeve, begging him to eat all together later that evening, and she barely spares a glance at Falco as he bids them all goodbye, trotting back home before his parents start looking for him. Udo and Zofia do the same, thanking Porco with tiny self-satisfied grins as they leave, and when Porco turns his head back he sees Gabi still going at it, her eyes glowing, again, all wide and full of admiration for her cousin, who implores her to please keep it down, and that he’s going to ask his mother, of course; it’s enough for her apparently, and she hugs his waist, tightly, before saying goodbye and running off.

It’s just the two of them, now: Braun clears his throat and opens his mouth to say something- but Porco is faster.

“We’re not hanging out, alright,” he clarifies, Braun stopping dead in his tracks, “I’m going home now.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you that,” is the muttered answer, some sort of frown daring to come up on his face. “I wanted to thank you for taking Udo and Zofia out with you.”

Oh, what an arse. Porco is a complete, patented arse.

“Yeah, it’s whatever. I’m off,” he spits, trying to mask the strong embarrassment he feels, and he turns his back on Braun before he can make him feel any shittier than he already does.

The morning of their departure for Fort Slava sees Porco wake up with Braun’s name on his lips.

A night spent tossing and turning in bed under the spell of Ymir’s memories always leaves a weird, acidic aftertaste in his mouth- this time, he reckons he’s been sleep-talking as well, judging by how dry his throat dares to be. He sighs, sore all over, the room still clad in darkness since dawn hasn’t broken yet: might as well get up and have breakfast while he’s at it.

As he stirs the lukewarm oatmeal with a spoon, he stares off at nothing in particular, remembering bits and pieces of what he dreamt about last night- he knows a bit more about the Paradis military, at least, and the training Ymir and the others went through: it all looks like child’s play to Porco’s eyes, but then again he wonders how he would’ve fared if he went there, as well.

The mission he saw in his dream, in particular, was something Ymir couldn’t be arsed with: some sort of survival test in the woods, the cadets split in different groups, having to reach the end of the forest together without running out of gas or blades- Porco was confused at first, about the blades, but then saw the Titan-shaped mannequins and understood, probably snorting in his sleep; or maybe it was Ymir who snorted back then, hard to tell with how vivid everything was.

“It’s always like this, isn’t it, Connie,” groaned Ymir, rolling her eyes, “every group you join goes through hell just to finish a single mission. You’re our unlucky star, truly.”

“Piss off, Ymir,” shrieked back who must’ve been Connie, a short boy with an equally short haircut, “it’s not my fault- it’s these stupid things! Always getting- ugh, tangled up, or something-”

“The ODM wires can’t tangle up, though,” blurted out another girl in their group, standing there and looking around in mild panic. Just then, someone else jumped down from a tree, landing right in front of them- it was Braun, of course, and he assessed the situation with comically wide eyes before speaking up. Ever the observant little soldier. “What happened?”

“Connie happened,” chuckled Ymir, ignoring Connie’s weak protests. “Hey, Reiner. While you’re at it, help him with his gear. He’s fucked it up again.”

“I did not-”

“Are you my squad leader? Cos I don’t think you should be giving out orders so easily, otherwise,” was Braun’s rebuttal, though spat with a matching smirk. Ymir could only snort back.

“Let’s just say you owe me one. Deal?”

Porco stops stirring his oatmeal as a vivid, traitorous flash of Braun’s subsequent grin manifests right before his eyes. His breakfast has probably gone cold by now, better heat it up again.

“Here, let me take a look,” mumbled then Braun, kneeling down behind Connie to assess the damage on the main housing on his lower back- that’s what Braun called it before tinkering with the shafts there. A forceful tug on it, complete with a grunt from Braun that makes Porco remember to turn the heat down before burning his breakfast, and Connie’s equipment started working again.

“Thanks, Reiner!” he exclaimed, trying it out and laughing in disbelief, scooting away followed by the other girl in their group. Ymir didn’t follow them right away, instead turning towards Braun to raise her eyebrows at him.

“You didn’t do that because I asked you to, huh… you think Instructor Shadis’ gonna give you a medal for it? Give you better grades, even? As if the second top student here needed it.”

Second top student is still a combination of words that makes Porco snort, if associated with Braun.

“Wouldn’t you do the same, though? Or am I just that good of a soldier?” answered Braun, a teenage-like arrogance to his voice that feels brand new to Porco.

“Eh, it depends. Shouldn’t you be leading your squad instead of playing good samaritan with us poor third-grade cadets?”

The memory of Braun’s deep chuckle causes Porco to dig the spoon into his oatmeal with unneeded violence- then, for no reason in particular, Porco tries to imagine what a grownup Marcel would’ve done in Braun’s place. Probably the same thing-

Wait.

Porco freezes, blinking, eyes gradually widening as much as they can.

He’s kind of been suspecting it since Ymir’s memories started coming to him, but this cements it. The fucker’s been imitating Marcel, for whatever reason: no way he’s grown up to be a dependable, altruistic person. He wouldn’t even let Porco copy his abnormally long essays back when they were candidates, and would rather get punched instead of admitting a defeat: he never helped anyone when he was younger, too, always prattling on about his stupid dream of defeating the island devils and save the world.

That, or Porco is probably too sleepy to draw believable conclusions; though, now, the way Ymir acts around Braun in these memories makes a lot more sense than he first thought.

Explosions, screams, orders: Porco’s lost count of pretty much every countable thing in existence.

“Fucking hell,” he groans as another blast shakes the earth, several soldiers flinching beside him, “when are they going to give us the sodding order?”

“Language,” spits a Marleyan officer, standing up straighter to glance at Commander Magath, stationed with the warrior candidates right at the centre of the trench. “You are to stay put until further notice.”

Porco rolls his eyes, frustrated to no end: having to stand back in the trench and see the Allied Forces blast the Eldian soldiers’ faces off, as they try to dig additional trenches to advance, is not something he wants to endure much longer. “But I could do it, I’m fast enough to get to the pillboxes.”

“And risk losing another Titan here?” retorts the officer, and Porco would very much like to shout at his stupid face and his stupid mustache that yes, it’s a risk he’s willing to take; though before he can say anything, the officer’s head snaps to the side, a colourful string of expletives leaving his mouth before the soldiers' shell-shocked wide eyes.

“There it is. See that thing?” he asks briskly, pointing the barrel of his gun towards the armored train making its way swiftly along the tracks. “That’s going to blast you out of your Jaw’s nape and kill you instantly. Not to mention the anti-Titan artillery they’ve got in the fort, too.”

“Is that the armored train? The one that got the army’s knickers in a twist?”

The officer almost snorts at Porco’s question. “Yeah, that’s it. The Commander is probably planning how to take it out as we speak.”

Porco bites down on his lip, throwing furtive glances out of the trench. “No way we can get closer now, then. The fuckers won’t even let us dig more trenches.”

“True. There’s also our very useful fleet waiting at the port for us to do something, it’s not like we can jump in and risk it all- and that’s why you’ve got to stay put.”

Before Porco can retort, someone climbs out of the trench, further to their right: several gasps around him confirm it to be none other than Gabi Braun, in her underclothes no less, both arms raised as she advances slowly towards the closest pillbox, straight ahead of the trench.

“For the love of… what the fuck is that kid doing?” barks the officer, beyond himself, eyes bulging out of his skull. “Has she gone mental!? Is the panzer unit ready with that damn Cart Titan yet?”

Only a Braun could do something this stupid, concludes Porco as he spots the hand grenades tied up in a bundle around her ankle, and he wonders- is it a family thing to be so lucky that the enemy forces haven’t fired yet, international law be damned? She’s close enough to the pillbox now that she could actually throw the grenades on the tracks, and…

And that’s exactly what Gabi Braun does, pretending to fall down on her face, a quick hand tugging the rope off her ankle as she throws the grenade bundle right there, in front of the armored train: as soon as it comes into contact with the bundle, Porco climbs out of the trench, palm already sliced, Commander Magath’s orders barked from a distance reaching his ears right after the blast.

The Jaw Titan is lightning quick: so much that it manages to shield Gabi from the subsequent barrage of bullets with a single, well-timed leap. Luckily enough, she jumped right into a hole dug by a previous blast, and a brief glance below his Titan confirms that Gabi is safe and sound- together with Falco Grice, who jumped out of the trench, for whatever idiotic reason.

“Mister Galliard!” she squeals, her round face full of gratitude, while the bullets keep ricocheting off the Jaw’s hardened muzzle. No time to lose: it leaps forward again, its armored claws making quick work of the pillbox from where the shots were fired, and the counterattack starts.

Several more pillboxes are situated along the fort, following the train tracks: Porco manages to tear down another one as the Jaw lands further to the left on all fours, right where the tracks intersect, tearing them off the ground with its hard-rock teeth, all while he can hear the loud thumping of Pieck’s Cart Titan making its way around the fort from the other side, the panzer unit loaded on it shooting in every direction as it knocks over the roof of the pillbox there.

Porco claws at the enemy units scattered across the battlefield taking them out with quick, well-aimed slashes, until he hears the retreat signal being fired from the front trench: all the surviving members of the assault unit run for cover, shielding themselves from the airborne unit’s imminent attack.

It’s nothing short of inhuman: Commander Magath explained it gingerly during their last briefing, Zeke sipping his coffee quietly at his side, as if all this didn’t even faze him. Using innocent people like this- turning them into Titans with Zeke’s uncanny ability, and dropping them off the zeppelin to bombard the fort, with no excuse behind it except their Eldian lineage and having broken who knows which rule, now… Porco decides he’s better off not thinking about it. He’s been having these thoughts more and more often lately.

The Jaw stops, resting back on its hind legs as the Titans are dropped, effectively taking down most of the fort due to the impact of their fall. The upper wall of the fort is their next target: very few Titans are left, most of them having died after the fall or even during it, and the Jaw springs forward to climb it. Another blast shakes the earth, this one stronger, as Braun’s Armored Titan shifts in mid-air and lands right in the inner sector of the fort, and it wastes no time, running forward and tearing the anti-Titan artillery off the walls.

There’s several guns still operating and, before they can get a clean shot, Porco crushes the unit about to fire at the Armored: he shifts back to leap off again before they can get him as well, but his gaze- the Jaw’s gaze, is caught in the Armored’s one for a split second, though before he can wonder about its significance he has to jump off the wall, the Armored swiftly tearing out of the ground a lookout tower and swinging it around, taking out several more units in the blink of an eye.

Zeke’s Beast Titan makes its appearance, as well: it lands beside Braun’s Armored, gathering the leftover ammo in its massive hand to throw it at the enemy fleet, gathered at the port just out of the fort’s outer wall, now torn down. Before the shot can effectively reach the fleet, a good number of their anti-Titan cannons manage to fire, the bullets directed right towards the Beast-

The Jaw merely flinches at the violence of the impact, though a shiver runs down Porco’s spine as he takes the scene in, wide-eyed: Braun’s Armored is lying on the ground after having stepped in front of the Beast to shield it, only its head and most of its upper back left, the rest of its body completely pulverized. Hadn’t Braun managed to get there in time…

Another thing Porco refuses to think about for too long.

He skips the briefing, just because he can. Following his enviable results in his latest mission, the Marleyan army’s gotten way more complacent than ever, and Porco is even allowed to drink and smoke right in front of most high-rank officers now. They call him the Commander’s golden boy, and while he knows it’s not true in the least he still lets his chest puff up whenever he hears someone refer to him as such.

The suburb they’ve been staying in would rather blow itself up than admit to being occupied by Marleyan forces, so Porco barely meets anyone in the streets except for Marleyan guards on patrol duty as he makes his way to the hospital. He’ll finish writing the report there, a first draft shoved unceremoniously in the paper bag he’s carrying under his arm, together with a couple of sandwiches he’s been meaning to share with Pieck, and a steaming cup of coffee in hand.

Porco hasn’t seen her in months: she’d been sent out on the front lines way before all of them, the newly established panzer unit getting some practice on an actual battlefield, as the officers put it. He wonders- maybe things have changed, after being separated for so long. Maybe now she’ll give him a chance, she could be into men, too, and maybe his attraction towards her will come back in full force. Maybe.

The nurse who welcomes him in gives him the cold shoulder, as expected: Porco wonders if it’s a nurse thing, being offended when healthy people ask them for help cos they don’t actually need it. It’s probably that way, he chuckles to himself as he climbs the stairs to the upper floor, mug of coffee in hand, and knocks on the door of Pieck’s room.

No answer: she’s probably still sleeping. Might as well go see Braun, then.

It’s a logical next step: Pieck is resting, Zeke and Colt are both at the meeting with General Calvi, and Porco won’t go out of his way to hang out with the candidates. So, Braun it is: at least he’ll be able to help him write his stupid report, cos there’s no way he can satisfy Commander’s Magath request of a ‘very detailed, very thorough report, with the least amount of bullshit possible’.

No answer, again, as he knocks: Porco clicks his tongue, a curse dying on his lips as he almost turns around, then stops. Maybe he can walk in anyway, Braun is not going to mind, and there’s probably a chair inside, which would be perfect for his sore arse. Nothing weird about him walking into a sleeping man’s room, plus, his coffee’s getting cold. So, it’s decided.

He walks in quietly, the room empty save for Braun, who’s sleeping in one of the only two beds there.

Porco closes the door behind him, and though it clicks softly Braun barely reacts to it, still breathing deeply. With tentative steps he walks to the desk to place his mug and paper bag on it, flopping down in the chair with a slight huff. He stares out the window: eventually, he cocks his head to the side and finds himself staring at Braun, for no apparent reason.

He’s just a bundle under the sheets, his face still, unexpressive. Porco grits his teeth, ears still ringing with explosions and screams: he ignores it, taking a sandwich out of the bag to unwrap it, swatting the breadcrumbs off the desk. He better finish up his report while he’s at it, and he rummages through the top drawer to find a pen as he holds the sandwich in his mouth.

Time passes slower than usual, the pen grazing the paper quietly, Porco eating with no hurry whatsoever, not caring if he’s being loud, then he jolts- an ugly, rough stroke on the paper that ruins everything, the sodding thing, courtesy of Braun’s loud grunt, and when he turns to look at him he sees he’s having a nightmare.

It’s nothing weird, it’s pretty much how a warrior lives the remainder of his life, but Porco never got to experience Braun’s nightmares from up close until now. It looks positively frightening, so much that he stops chewing, his eyes widening as Braun’s face scrunches up in a frown, his head thrashing to the side, sheets being tugged down by nervous hands as he starts sobbing, of all things, though no tears come out of his eyes, still squeezed shut.

He starts wailing, then- low, distorted, and Porco swallows with some effort, his own breathing labored. Is this how it looks to other people? Is this how he looks when he’s having his own nightmares, too? He hopes not, because Braun’s mouth falls open, a rough, loud sob bursting out of his chapped lips, bitten to the point of drawing blood.

“No,” he starts begging, then says unintelligible gibberish, Porco knows he’s got crumbs at the corner of his mouth but doesn’t really care, not now that he’s scared shitless- should he do something? Braun keeps writhing, sobbing, begging someone to wait, to please don’t do that- and Porco finds himself hoping he’s having nightmares about Marcel’s death, his blood running cold, bread and cheese suddenly tasting like ashes on his tongue.

No way he really thinks that. Braun doesn’t deserve this. Maybe.

He turns back to his report, trying to salvage the ugly line there, as Braun keeps sobbing, imploring- then, a louder “wait!”, and he sucks in a huge breath, and he must’ve woken up because his breathing just sped up like hell. Definitely one of the worst nightmares, Porco knows that sensation very well.

“It sounded like you were having a nice dream,” he drawls, mouth full as he keeps his eyes on the paper, though he can see Braun sitting up out the corner of his eye. “So I didn't wake you up.”

Porco doesn’t know if Braun’s picked up on his animosity yet, and he’s probably stopped wondering about his reasons a good while back: though he still clears his throat as he says, his voice hoarse with sleep, “I still haven’t thanked you for earlier, Galliard. You saved me.”

Now Porco stops writing, turning around and wiping the crumbs off his lips as he averts his eyes immediately after: there’s no fun whatsoever in confronting Braun about his wrongs when he’s just woken up, still vulnerable, though he does it anyway. Like it’s a bad habit, a hand reaching into the pocket for a cigarette and a lighter.

“Wrong. I didn’t save you,” he retorts, glancing at him sideways as Braun sits on the edge of his bed, returning Porco’s glare. “I saved my motherland of Marley from losing the Armored cos you fucked up.”

Braun doesn’t even flinch at those words: he probably thinks of them as true. He better should; though he doesn’t stop glaring, and Porco is the first to avert his eyes, again- he’s definitely picked up on Porco’s hostility, now. All the better, saves Porco the effort to put his heart in it.

“And anyway,” he keeps going then, digging the knife deeper, “none of this would’ve ever happened if they chose me instead of you. My brother would’ve never been eaten trying to protect you, either.”

At those words, Braun’s head snaps up as he blinks faster, and asks with a hint of urgency in his voice, “you saw Marcel’s memories then?”

“No,” he snorts, gripping his pen tighter, thumping it rhythmically on the desk out of annoyance, “haven’t gotten to see you run away like a selfish coward yet.”

Braun’s face falls, his eyes guarded, now: Porco keeps looking away from him, then turns to glare at him, and back again- for some reason he blurts out, his heartbeat speeding up, “I got to see some more of that girl's memories, Ymir… what a name they gave her.”

No answer from Braun, so Porco tears it out of his mouth: “she volunteered to give back Marcel’s Titan, didn’t she?”

“She did,” he grunts, elbows resting on his knees, and he doesn’t spare Porco even a single glance.

“So what was it you did on that island? Getting rescued by one person after the next, just like usual?” is Porco’s subsequent attack, and he actually turns around with his upper body, to make sure his words have the proper impact on Braun: still nothing, he keeps staring down into nothingness, shoulders hunched forward as he mumbles “yeah,” more out of politeness than actual will to engage in conversation.

There’s no trace of that arrogant, smirking boy from five years earlier. Porco bites his lip, toying with the idea of revealing what he actually saw of Ymir’s past, then gives in. Might as well go all the way while he’s at it. “I saw you through her memories… what the hell were you even doing? Having fun?”

No answer, yet again. Porco grits his teeth then lets everything out, without thinking: “You were acting like you were some kind of strong, reliable figure,” he accuses, flashes of him fixing the gear of that boy named Connie, of him helping out other cadets several times, “having the time of your life while imitating my brother, of all things?”

There it is: Braun’s eyes widen, ever so slightly, then one corner of his lips shifts up, a ghost of that self-important smirk from his teenage years. Porco’s breath almost hitches in his throat.

“You’re exactly right, Galliard,” he scoffs then, his shoulders still sagging as his gaze darts to the side, first- then lands right into Porco’s eyes, an intensity to it that Porco’s only ever seen on the battlefield before, “everything you’re saying is spot on.”

Before Porco can wipe the stupor off his face, and actually shoot back at Braun’s frankly irritating, cryptic answer, the door clicks open: both their heads snap in its direction, as if they were interrupted. Pieck limps into the room, resting her weight on a single crutch, looking tired beyond belief but healthy enough to stand.

“Pokko,” she calls, her eyebrows slightly raised, “you shouldn’t be bullying someone who just took artillery fire, you know?”

“How many times do I have to tell you, don’t call me that, Pieck,” he retorts immediately, feeling even more irritated as Braun turns his whole attention to her, asking if she’s alright- as if their previous conversation ended there, with his stupid riddle or whatever the fuck it was.

“It’s been two months since the last time I shifted back into a human,” she chuckles, “I just forget how to walk on two legs when it happens. Anyway, Reiner- if you’re able to get up already you should go see Gabi and the other kids, they were really worried about you.”

Porco’s coffee’s gone beyond cold, but he drinks it anyway, grimacing at the taste.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” sighs Braun as he gets up, dragging his feet as he walks out of the room, probably to wash his face or piss or something, whatever- Porco’s seen enough of him today, anyway. He waits for Pieck to lie down on the other bed, instead, munching on what’s left of his sandwich as he glances at her, the way her hair bounces softly on the sheets as she moves her head to one side then the other, relaxing with a content sigh.

“So tired,” she pouts, and Porco curses himself for the bitterness still swimming in his mouth after her interruption. He’s been looking forward to seeing Pieck again, and here they are, alone in the same room, Porco’s mood completely ruined thanks to Braun: things couldn’t have gone any worse.

“It feels like I haven’t seen you in a while,” he blurts out, feeling suddenly awkward for no reason, gulping down his coffee and almost retching because of how cold it is.

“What’s that?” chuckles Pieck, as if she wasn’t listening. “We shared the battlefield the whole time.”

So nothing’s changed: Porco feels stupid for having even thought about it. “Well… at least you’ll be able to rest for a while, now.”

“I hope so,” sighs Pieck again, her voice getting increasingly sleepy. Porco looks down at his report, still unfinished, the ugly scribble on it ruining the whole page, and crumples up the paper, throwing it aside.

“Gabi did it for the sake of none other than you Eldian warriors!”

Colt’s drunken speech and the subsequent roar of approval from the other soldiers can be heard all across the train. Porco shifts uncomfortably in his seat as the Marleyan officer to his right turns his head, distaste clear in his expression as he curses under his breath, raising his chin at Commander Magath who sits directly behind him. “Commander… we should shut them up.”

No one is surprised when the Commander answers in a weary voice, “let’s look the other way- give them this one night,” signaling the end of it: Porco sighs, head lolling backwards, the long trip doing quite a number on his neck. He’s glad he can actually sit in the nicer carriage this time, but being here means having little to no conversation with Pieck or Zeke, thanks to countless high-ranked officers keeping an eye on their every move; he wishes he could be in the candidates’ carriage, cringing at Colt’s rambling and rolling his eyes at the kids for being too loud, though with an ever present fondness that just won’t leave him be, and that seems to grow stronger every day.

“Reiner must be having fun back there with the others,” murmurs Pieck, her heavy-lidded eyes blinking slower by the minute. Porco can hear Zeke’s quiet snoring from behind him, and bites down on his lip thinking that’s another reason why Pieck is keeping her volume down: it shouldn’t matter anymore, it’s clear now that there’s nothing between them- and nothing between Porco and Pieck, either, but there’s still that phantom jealousy in the back of his head, acting up at her every action, and he hates it.

Every interaction with every single person in his life has been getting increasingly difficult, as time goes on. Even Zeke, now- always having to put a too formal ‘mister’ before his name, or referring to him as ‘War Chief’, the same way he’s supposed to say ‘Vice Captain Braun’, it drives him up the sodding wall, really.

“I bet,” he answers eventually. Pieck’s already forgotten about it, though, her gaze trying to follow the low lights at the horizon, one chasing after the other.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she pipes up then, out of the blue, right as Porco’s eyelids are dropping. He jolts awake, sniffing, and Pieck smirks at him, both fond and tired, as she always is lately. “Someone on your mind?”

And it’s always fucking Braun, of all people, the first one he thinks of: though she doesn’t need to know, and it’s certainly not in the way she means it. “I’m just tired as… as,” he stops himself, hoping the officers would turn the other way at his cursing habit, too.

Pieck hides a quiet chuckle behind her hand. “It’s just that you always do this… you’ve got the biggest frown whenever I bring up Reiner.”

Oh, Porco’s practiced this: he almost smirks as he blurts out one of his rehearsed lines. “I wonder why. You know, with what happened to Marcel and all that.”

He can hear Commander Magath clear his throat, loudly, insistently.

“I think I’ll squeeze in a quick nap,” sighs Pieck, making herself comfortable in her seat and closing her eyes. Porco tries to do the same, failing to hide his disappointment for being cut off by the Commander, but he can’t catch any sleep with how tightly he’s crossing his arms, so fuck it.

Traditionally, the Eldians’ carriage is the last one to be opened, their great numbers being the main reason: this particular mission saw almost a thousand soldiers leave, after all. Though now, as Porco steps off the train, he finds Colt doubled down right there in the middle of the platform.

“What happened,” he sighs, though he already knows the answer: the others are stepping off the train in an orderly fashion, thanks to the Marleyan officers guarding them, their rifles always ready, and there’s quite the disgusting stench of vomit that punches Porco square in the nose and also reveals the reason why they stepped off earlier than usual.

“Here,” he offers, helping Colt up, right as Gabi jumps out of the nearby door, yelling at the top of her lungs: Porco spies Braun following her, squinting as she keeps screaming for whatever idiotic reason, and he scoffs as Colt moans in pain, massaging his temple with his free hand.

“Gabi, please… I told you not to yell,” he begs, his words still slurred, his shirt stained with whatever it is he ate and drunk last night.

“And I’ve told you before not to drink so much, you lightweight,” chides him Porco, holding him up with little effort, “can’t hold down a drink if your life depended on it.”

Falco follows close behind, disappointment comically clear in his round eyes as he sighs, looking too grown up for his age- just like all the candidates do, really. “Who let you have liquor, Colt?” he asks, and Porco can see with a quick glance both Pieck and Zeke, in front of them, throwing a knowing look behind them before acting as if nothing happened.

“He looked like he wanted some,” explains Pieck, quiet enough for Zeke to hear- but Porco’s ears are sharp, and he picks up on it, too.

“What a shame,” sighs Zeke then, louder, "I can’t believe Colt actually threw up Pieck’s kindness all over the train.”

At that easy exchange, something Porco hasn’t had in a long time with Pieck, he tuts and helps Colt walk faster, just so he can get this over with and go home as fast as humanly possible. Somewhere behind them Gabi keeps yelling, and he can hear Braun cut her off, out of the blue, as he uses his Vice Captain voice to tell her “be quiet, now”.

Porco rolls his eyes. “He could’ve said that sooner,” groans Colt.


	12. 12 - no one speaks and no one tries, no one flies around the sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i might've ran out of things to write in chapter notes...... i think  
> you might want to avoid reading this in public for Reasons but if it's nothing major then more power to you
> 
> hope you enjoy <3

“Exactly right, he says,” grumbles Porco to his own reflection the following morning, “that damn prick.”

He’s woken up in a foul mood, worse than usual, and it's nothing to scoff at: that's quite the achievement. For starters, it’s way too early, and he hardly got three hours of sleep; not to mention another fresh wave of Ymir’s memories rippling in, and the subsequent frustration that comes with them because how interesting, now he knows that Historia’s favourite colour is baby blue, but he still doesn’t get to see any of Marcel’s memories. So, fuck Historia, too. And fuck Ymir while he’s at it. Fuck Braun, even. Fuck everyone, just to make sure.

After he’s brushed his teeth and cursed again with a mouth full of toothpaste, it gets better. He shrugs into his jacket and walks out, both Mum and Dad still asleep: the trip to the military headquarters is brief, the guards barely looking at his written permit as he yawns his way inside, and again as he pushes the door open, and as he walks up the stairs to get to Zeke’s room-

He freezes right on the spot, his heart skipping a beat when he sees Pieck crawling forward on all fours, right there on the landing, hair hiding most of her face.

“Ah,” she stops then, barely looking up at him, her voice on the constant edge of yawning and not yawning. “Good morning, Pokko.”

Porco grabs the handrail, holding on for dear life, his other hand resting on his chest as his heart tries to slow down the crazy pace it's beating at. “Pieck,” he gasps, “what the fuck.”

“I feel more comfortable like this. Did I spook you?” she asks, not bothered by the weirdness of the situation at all.

“…walk like you're supposed to, will you.”

Eventually, he helps her stand on her own two legs, her refusal to use crutches equally endearing and infuriating: Porco doesn’t knock before stepping in Zeke’s room, and he sees both Colt and Braun already sitting at the table, their heads snapping towards them in surprise, Zeke standing right in front of the kettle and not bothering with turning around as he greets them, his voice managing to sound polite and distracted at the same time.

“Good morning,” greets Colt, an easy smile on his face: he’s unusually chipper for having nursed quite the heavy hungover, and Porco answers in kind with a toss of his head, not sparing Braun even a hint of a glance as he grabs the chair furthest away from him.

“Is everyone here then?” asks Zeke, walking towards the table with two steaming mugs of tea in both hands.

“Doesn't happen very often, the whole meeting in your room and all... War Chief,” answers Porco, the rank title still tasting weird on his tongue whenever he talks to Zeke, “where are the army guys?”

“Army guys,” scoffs Zeke under his breath, then offers, cryptical, “they’re not in this room.”

Porco sits back in his chosen chair, a small ‘huh’ leaving his lips as Zeke clarifies, “we’re just sharing a cup of tea, that’s all,” Pieck walking past behind him to curl up on the sofa like a cat would: Porco can't help but notice how said sofa has been pushed further towards the table, as if Zeke knew that Pieck would prefer to lay on it instead of sitting on a chair.

Zeke sits down as well then, and Porco draws his eyebrows together at seeing Braun turn his head to the side to look behind him for whatever reason, before Zeke starts explaining himself properly. “I’ll get to the heart of the matter: things aren't looking bright for us at the moment.”

No matter how eloquent Zeke is, Porco can’t, for the life of him, follow what he’s saying for more than a couple of minutes: he’s perfected the art of cutting the bullshit out and only letting in the important information, so he takes the freedom of leaning back in his seat and blow on his mug as his gaze swims around the room, Zeke’s deep voice lulling him into a state of comfortable relaxation.

“We've had the pleasure of tasting on our own skin just recently that conventional weapons are going to surpass the power of the Titans soon enough,” he considers eventually, after a whole tirade about the world hating the Eldians more and more every single day, and how it’s gotten even worse after winning this war. “In other words, it won’t be long before we lose any tactical value.”

Porco perks up at that, connecting the dots as Zeke keeps talking, uninterrupted. “Once we do, Marley’s position of power will become untenable, and our survival will be even more uncertain than it already is.”

Everyone’s tea’s probably gone cold at this point, but no one seems to mind, not even Zeke: “the world already says it’s meaningless to speak of human rights as far as Eldians are concerned,” he sighs, “and this is what you’d call another threat to our existence.”

Only Colt dares to speak up then, asking politely, “isn’t there a way to prevent this?”

“The only way is to finish what we started,” offers Zeke matter-of-factly, glancing to the left towards the small globe on the table. “Marley must retrieve the Founding Titan and access the resources of Paradis immediately: that way, our motherland will be able to maintain its power while we, with our hands, resolve the threat to the world that is Paradis and all the devils who inhabit it.”

Colt is about to speak up again, but Pieck is faster, her soft voice coming from the sofa as she points out, “I don't think it'll be enough, even if our plan to retake the Founder succeeds. Who says the world will stop hating us then?”

The way Zeke compliments her for being exactly right, together with pointing his finger at her, irritates Porco deeply. It’s not a guessing game, for fuck’s sake. “What’s important is how we accomplish our mission: we need the perfect script that leads up to us taking back the Founder,” he explains, as Colt sits forward, eyebrows furrowed while trying to predict what Zeke will suggest next.

“First, we need to remind the world just how big a threat that island poses, and every story needs a narrator. It seems that the Tybur family will play that role for us.”

That’s unexpected: even Porco can’t contain his surprise, his lips parting quietly, Colt sitting up straighter at Zeke’s words. “The Tybur family?”

“Yes. They’ve agreed to take action, given they’re honorary Marleyans and are worried for the future of both Marley and Eldia as well.”

“Makes sense,” interjects again Pieck, resting her chin on both hands, “they’ve opposed King Fritz during the Great Titan War, never once used the Warhammer Titan against an enemy state… in the eyes of other countries they are a respected family that always took the right path in everyone’s interests. If they're going to speak up for us then there's good chance someone might actually listen.”

“As expected of Pieck! That's exactly right,” repeats Zeke again, and this- this is where Porco has to speak up, too, because something doesn't quite sit right with him, and his opinion matters as well, doesn't it?

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, everyone turning towards him as soon as the word leaves his mouth, “but when was the last time the Tyburs raised a finger to help us? Must be comfortable to live in their lovely big mansions while we're forced into internment.”

Porco tries to look up directly at Zeke but he catches, out of the corner of his eye, both Colt’s surprise and Braun’s hint of a smirk, resting on his lips. He ignores them. “Sounds a bit selfish to me, showing up now of all times and acting like they're heroes or something.”

“I know how you feel,” answers Zeke, though it comes out too slowly, and Porco can smell this kind of bullshit from miles and miles, “but I assure you they're truly concerned about our situation.”

And it is bullshit, just like he thought: Porco bites his lip, trying to contain himself from asking where the fuck were they when literal kids were sent to die on the front lines just a few days before, for starters, so he inhales sharply, a grimace spreading slowly on his face, “yeah, but-”

“If this will save our motherland, then I welcome it.”

Porco’s head snaps up at Braun’s interjection- he’s not even glancing at him, his gaze firm on Zeke, unblinking, focused. His words are rehearsed, like he’s reading shit off a written list, the useful payoff after years of writing abnormally long essays on their blessed motherland and all that crap. “We, as warriors, should join hands with the Tybur family to restore the power and status of the nation of Marley.”

There’s only one thing that could push him to talk just like he did all those years ago: someone’s listening in- the suspiciously missing high-rank officers, of course. Porco was about to make an arse out of himself or even worse, and Braun spouted off those idiotic words just to cover him. He lowers his gaze, embarrassed, as Zeke considers what Braun just said, his shoulders shaking gently while trying to mask a soft chuckle. That pretty much confirms it.

“Yes,” he nods, “that's why a festival will be held in Liberio pretty soon.”

One of Braun’s eyebrows shoots up at that. “A festival?” he parrots, like he wants to make sure Zeke’s not talking shit again.

“A festival,” confirms Zeke, his gaze growing sharper as he stares at all of them individually, one after the other. “Very illustrious people from many nations will be invited, so that the whole world will listen to the Tyburs' declaration: we will seize the island of Paradis within a year.”

Porco hopes that he’s not the only one who can’t believe what Zeke says anymore, though he has no heart to look up at the others, except for Braun who won’t look back at him anyway. He never really liked Zeke in the first place, maybe he has his doubts, too.

“The fates of both Eldians and Marleyans are riding on this strategy: no failures will be tolerated,” he concludes, sounding less and less like himself, he might as well be waving a script under Porco's eyes by now, “let’s bring our hearts together once again, for the future of Eldians and our motherland of Marley.”

When the meeting’s over and everyone goes their separate ways, Porco hesitates and stops, allowing Braun to walk out of the door first: again, he doesn’t acknowledge him in the slightest. Porco tries not to think much of it as he walks out after him, though he glares at the straight line of his shoulders, finding it weirdly irritating.

“Aren’t those bad for you, Mister Galliard…?”

Porco glances to the side, taken aback: Falco is standing there, wiping sweat off his forehead with his arm as he looks up at him questioningly. No one’s ever interrupted their daily run to go talk to him, especially when he’s smoking and leaning back against the wall, lost in thought: Porco’s been spending more and more time on his own lately, and people have taken this as a clear warning sign of not bothering him, apparently. He might be a bit too glad about it.

“Not really,” he chuckles then, smirking lips holding the cigarette with expertise as Falco draws his eyebrows together.

“So your lungs can heal with the power of the Titans, even if you smoke a lot?”

He buys as much time as he can before answering, taking the cigarette off and puffing out the smoke in the opposite direction, so that Falco won’t inhale it accidentally. “Yeah, that’s why,” he rasps, clearing his throat immediately after and licking his lower lip.

Falco takes his time, too: he considers Porco’s words with a slight pout, then pipes up again, “what about your breath? Does it stink like the Commander’s?”

“I brush my teeth everyday?” offers Porco, but it’s clear that it’s not enough. Was he this nosy back when he was twelve, too? “Why the sudden interrogation? Wanna try one?”

“No, no, thanks,” laughs Falco, though he looks positively grossed out by the offer, “it’s for grownups. And I don’t want to smell bad.”

“You’re going to smell bad anyway, you’re a man,” spits back Porco, scratching his cheek with his thumb before taking another drag- though not all of them stink, he considers. He’s the prime example of someone who smells good, of course; then there’s Braun, though it hurts to admit it. He smells even better than Porco does, sometimes.

“Huh,” scoffs Falco, eliciting a raspy snort out of Porco. “Well, I’ve gotta go back now… Gabi’s probably mad at me already for skipping a whole lap of the courtyard.”

“Gabi is mad? Not the instructor?” laughs Porco, coughing out smoke. “She really wants good grades, doesn’t she.”

“Well,” blurts out Falco, averting his eyes, “she’s not that good in written tests… but she's catching up. And she’s still the top candidate in everything else.”

“Yeah, she’s talented,” concedes Porco, “must’ve taken after her mother’s side of the family.”

It slips past his lips before he can realize what he’s just implied: Falco’s eyes widen at his words, and Porco sighs, tossing the spent cigarette to the ground. “But Mister Braun is the best-”

“I never said that he’s shit,” he interjects, correcting himself, “just that he wasn’t gifted in the slightest back when we were little, that’s all.”

Falco still isn’t convinced: from what Porco has gathered over the years he’s a very opinionated kid, much like Colt, though he’s learnt to keep his own ideas to himself after Commander Magath’s countless threats. “I didn't know that. But he still worked hard to get where he is now…”

“Everyone worked hard. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“…so you’re saying I’ve got to work even harder to inherit the Armored Titan from him?” concludes Falco, doubt apparent in his eyes. Porco sighs: he didn’t expect that he’d have to act as a babysitter of all things, today, but he indulges Falco anyway. A little push never hurt anyone, after all.

“Gabi’s going to get it first if you keep complaining about her instead of working your arse off. So go on now, off with you,” he barks, in his best impression of Commander Magath’s voice, though a smirk still escapes him: and Falco notices, his cheeks a darker tint than they were before as he scoots off, giggling, back to training as he's supposed to.

“It's a pity that you're not planning on having kids,” snorts Zeke as he walks up to him immediately after, causing Porco to roll his eyes, “or are you…?”

“I’ve got enough shit to handle on my own, so no, thanks… War Chief.”

This time Zeke actually laughs, and he mirrors Porco’s pose, though he’s not planning on smoking judging from his hands, firmly sheathed in the pockets of his coat. “You can stop calling me that when we’re alone, you know? It’s embarrassing... not to mention you don’t even put your heart in it.”

“You said it yourself, it’s embarrassing,” answers Porco, glancing sideways at him: Zeke is in a good mood today, he can tell, a constant half-smile on his lips as he watches the candidates go through their eleventh lap around the court.

“About that,” he starts then, Porco involuntarily averting his eyes, “you should give your thanks to Reiner for covering you yesterday, during the meeting. I thought I’d made it pretty clear that we were being recorded.”

He’s still smiling, but his voice is ice cold. Porco can feel his ears burning at that: they grew up together, fought countless battles side by side, but whenever Zeke acts like a superior he feels belittled, insignificant, a remnant of how he felt after he wasn’t chosen to become a warrior. “I… didn’t realise.”

“That’s what I’m asking of you today, as your direct superior. Go see your other superior and tell him you’re grateful. We all need to get along while we’re still alive, don’t we?” he asks then, his voice slowly trickling back to his familiar, laid-back tone.

Porco is about to retort, but he stops himself on time: Zeke’s term comes to an end later this year, and he probably wants to send them off on good terms for what it’s worth. He can do that for Zeke, but for him only: what happens between him and Braun stays between him and Braun alone. Appearances are whatever.

“I’ll do that, yeah,” he concedes, tapping the heel of his boot on the ground. Zeke hums, satisfied by his answer.

“Reiner’s going to take my place when I pass on, so you better try to build an amicable relationship with him. That- and you might want to work harder to get nominated for the position of Vice Captain, too.”

This time, Porco snorts. “Pieck’s going to get it anyway, she's bloody smart.”

It’s surprising to hear so much fondness in Zeke’s voice as he turns his head to stare at Porco, directly, his half-smile still there on his lips: “don’t be so hard on yourself. I’ll have you know that you’re considered one of the best warriors Marley’s ever seen.”

Praise never fails with Porco: he smirks, scoffing at Zeke’s words, then walks away, holding a hand up to bid him goodbye.

It takes him an awful lot of time to find Braun: he’s been walking all around headquarters with no luck, and it’s almost curfew.

Porco is going back home, having given up already, when he spots him: he’s showing his permit to the guards, walking back into the internment zone. He follows him, his steps quicker, showing his own permit in a hurry before running up to him.

“Oi, dead last,” he calls, a mocking tone that Braun knows well- but he’s not turning back towards him, and not stopping, either, so Porco just keeps running until he can slap a hand on his shoulder. “Stop when I’m talking to you, will you?”

He’s about to add something else when Braun finally slows down and turns, but the words die deep in Porco's throat when he sees the state he's in: his eyes are wide, a pink hue to their whites, hair all mussed up and sticking to his forehead. He’s been sweating, he knows, because the faint smell of it comes right under Porco’s nose, though it’s not as disgusting as he makes it out to be when he steps back, grimacing.

“Ever heard of a shower?” he scoffs, “you smell like you’ve been rolling in Titan saliva.”

“Have you seen Falco?” murmurs Braun then, as if he didn’t even hear him. “It’s almost time to go home and he’s nowhere to be seen…”

His voice is shaking. Porco remembers Zeke’s words, and wonders what could’ve possibly happened: he saw Braun just yesterday and he was completely fine. “I didn’t, maybe he’s still hanging out with Gabi and the others. What the hell is up with you, anyway?”

“No,” he sighs, shaking his head, “no, Gabi is home, Udo and Zofia as well… I’ve got to find him, I’ve looked everywhere-”

Porco’s hands are on both of Braun’s shoulders before he can realize it. “Hey, slow down. What happened?” he asks again, concern throwing his heartbeat off its usual pace. This is not normal, not in the slightest.

It takes Braun a long while before he can even attempt to answer: the warmth of his skin is seeping through his uniform and the several layers of clothing he wears at all times- it’s a running joke between the younger soldiers, that Vice Captain Braun is afraid of showing too much, but it’s unusual just how warm his skin is, how fast his chest is rising and falling under his button-up shirt. Like he just breathed gunpowder.

He licks his lips before answering, Porco’s gaze following the tip of his tongue, wet and pink.

“I just- I was…” he stutters, then blinks several times as he looks down at Porco, who is still holding his shoulders, for whatever reason. “I wasn’t thinking clearly,” he concludes then, raising his arms to shove Porco’s hands off him, gently. “Sorry.”

Porco clears his throat before stepping back, averting his eyes. “Nothing new about that. It’s whatever.”

“Right,” nods Braun, his voice shaking a bit less than before, “I'll keep looking, then... Sorry for bothering you.”

“Yeah, yeah. See you,” greets Porco, a curt nod of his head, then Braun walks off without a second thought.

Wait. He was supposed to apologize, wasn’t he?

“Fuck it,” he sighs aloud as he starts walking back home, gritting his teeth.

“The Titans come from the south,” explains a much calmer Braun the next day, his hand shifting on the map, a bunch of Marleyan officers gathered around the table and listening to his words with raised eyebrows. “Which means that the farther you go towards the mountains inside the walls, the sparser their defenses.”

“So we should attack from the north?” asks one of the officers, disbelief clear in his voice, as if Braun didn’t know anything about the island after having lived there for five years.

“Yes, that would be an option, but the waterfront to the south is still the only location where large ships can dock. If we want to use our material advantages, then-”

"From the south, then?” interjects another, a barely concealed scoff under his breath. Braun doesn’t let it get to him though, and he’s quick to consider both options.

“We could, but we’ve already lost several ships off the island’s south shore. That’s just how focused the enemy’s attention is: there’s even the possibility that the docks have been destroyed, and-”

Porco clicks his tongue, audibly, as Braun is interrupted yet again by the same officer that scoffed just earlier. “So what is it you’re trying to say, Eldian?”

Even Commander Magath stares at said officer, in disbelief, though Braun isn’t letting it go so easily. “I thought that the information I have could be of use to you,” he explains, his eyebrows slowly riding up his forehead, and that’s the tipping point.

“You thought, huh. Seems like we were mistaken,” concludes the officer, “we were wrong to trust Eldians and let them speak to us… one would think you'd know how to carry a conversation, at the very least."

Braun doesn’t miss a beat: he glares at the officer, lifting his chin ever so slightly as he retorts, “I apologise for not meeting your expectations.” Pieck coughs gently beside Porco, though it sounds more like a scoff to his ears.

As soon as the officers leave, mumbling at each other- and followed by a very tired-looking Commander Magath, Porco walks out on the balcony, joining the others as they watch over the candidates’ daily tests in the courtyard. He leans back against the rail, turning away from the view, Pieck looking down at his side with genuine interest.

“Pretty sound plan we've got to retake Paradis,” he scoffs then, trying to break the awkward silence there, “talk about some awfully bright officers leading us. Can’t wait to hear what strategy they come up with.”

“Like entrusting the whole thing to four kids?” offers Pieck, dry, and Porco would at least snort at that, though she adds immediately after, “I wonder what’s going to happen to all of us.”

Just then, Braun leans forward, eyes widening as he watches the scene unfolding in the courtyard: everyone does the same, and Porco has to turn around and look as well, giving in to curiosity.

“He’s taken the lead,” he says, clearly not believing his own words. “Falco passed Gabi.”

Porco can’t help but chuckle as he sees Falco fall to his knees, exhausted, immediately followed by a very frustrated Gabi. “Look how excited they are over an endurance test of all things,” he snorts after Udo and Zofia gather around Falco, cheering for him, “they’ve got no idea what we went through back in the day.”

As if he didn’t even hear him, it’s Colt now who speaks up, uncertainty dripping from his voice. “It’s too late to try to improve his results now, though... he’s not going to dethrone Gabi.”

That could be true, but Porco knows better- he finds himself glaring at Braun, before shooting back, “I wonder about that. Selection standards have always been pretty vague, you know.”

He averts his eyes before Braun can spot him, now that he’s glancing back at him. Colt lets out a questioning hum, unaware that Porco is referring to something else entirely. “I don't think the military would pick him over the top graded candidate, though. There’s no need to make Falco into a Titan, too-”

“I don't think I heard that right, Colt,” warns Zeke, immediately obtaining his full attention, “are you making light of that honour?”

“I’m- I apologise, I was being thoughtless…”

Zeke regains his half-smile immediately, putting a hand on Colt’s shoulder as he concedes, “well, I guess that’s what being a big brother is.”

At those words, Porco’s breath hitches in his throat: Marcel felt the same way back then, he never wanted Porco to join the program. That’s why he didn’t take it well at first, that’s why Porco got cut out of his group, and also the reason it took him so long to actually give out advice and stand by his side.

He’s always known this, and yet Zeke’s words bring a question to the forefront of his mind: maybe the Military didn’t want this to happen?

Maybe they chose Braun over him on purpose? But then- why allow him to join if his brother was bound to get a Titan, too?

“What’s wrong, Pokko?” asks Pieck, and Porco blinks at her words- Zeke and Colt are both gone, and he’s been staring off into space for quite some time now. He’s starting to sweat.

“Nothing,” he lies, thoughts running wild as he glances down at her, then up at Braun’s profile, his tired eyes, the wrinkles under them growing deeper by the day. “It’s nothing, really.”

They stay there in silence the whole time until the candidates go back inside for lunch, Porco looking away from Braun only when it’s time to go.

Gabi almost bumps into him the following morning, her permit crumpled up in hand as she swats her hair away from her eyes. She looks like she’s been running. “Ah- sorry Mister Galliard!” she shrieks, stepping back and fixing her bag as it keeps slinging off her shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” snorts Porco, glancing around before asking, “isn’t your cousin here?”

She purses her lips before answering: it’s something Braun used to do when he was younger, too. “He’s still sleeping cos you haven’t got any meetings today. Why?”

“Lazy,” he chuckles then, opting for shoving aside the usual edge in his voice whenever he’s mentioned. “I wanted to ask him something. You think he’ll be up in an hour?”

“Dunno,” she offers, a bright, empty smile on her face that alarms Porco. “He sleeps a lot these days.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Gabi keeps staring, until Porco shakes his head questioningly at her, pointing his chin forward. “What’s with you? Staring is rude.”

“You’re rude all the time,” she shoots back, not missing a beat, quickly adding a “mister Galliard” for good measure as she fixes her bag, again.

He must hand it off to her: she’s right. “Good point. That bag giving you trouble?”

This time, Gabi loses her composure, scoffing and rolling her eyes, much to Porco’s amusement. “Yeah! The shoulder strap’s stuck…”

“Give it to me,” Porco hears himself say, and when Gabi takes off the bag and hands it to him he’s reminded of Ymir’s memories, of Braun helping the other cadets countless times. He swats the thought away with a grimace as he pulls on the shoulder strap to adjust it properly. “Here.”

“Oh, thanks!” she squeals, grabbing the bag from Porco’s hands with unnecessary strength. “I’ve been meaning to ask Reiner but he’s still asleep plus I’m running late, so I thought whatever, but you saved me!”

“It’s nothing,” scoffs Porco, feeling his cheeks grow warmer when Gabi looks up at him with a bigger smile than before. It’s just a shoulder strap, what’s the big deal about that?

“You know, you’re nice if you want to,” mutters Gabi then, a wide grin spreading on her face before she shouts, “bye Mister Galliard!”, impossibly loud, and Porco cringes as she scoots past him, trotting towards the gate. There’s something between him and the Brauns that just won’t click.

Speaking of Brauns, Porco considers his options: he could go knock on his door instead of waiting for him to show up, but he’s not exactly on speaking terms with Karina Braun, his only interactions with her consisting of polite wishes of good morning maybe a few times a year. He’s not forced to apologise today of all days, either: but he feels like he owes it to Zeke, especially after what he said to him about being one of Marley’s best warriors.

Marcel would’ve been proud of him.

For some reason, Porco’s legs start moving on their own. Before he can decide against it, he’s knocking on the Brauns’ door, his heartbeat speeding up as he shoves both fists inside his pockets: the door clicks, and Karina Braun glances outside before opening it all the way, a surprised smile on her face.

“Good morning Miss Braun,” he greets, his back straight, trying not to avert his gaze. “I was wondering if I could… if I could speak with Reiner, if he’s up,” he explains, Braun’s name feeling weird on his tongue after so many years.

Karina’s smile sweetens at his words, her rough voice answering with unusual politeness, something Porco isn’t quite used to. “Of course, come in. I’ll go wake him up.”

“Ah- it’s nothing urgent, really, there’s no need to…”

“Don’t worry,” she cuts him off, inviting him to walk in, “when he sleeps in he stays in a bad mood all day. You’re doing him a favour.”

There’s no reasoning with her, reckons Porco, so he does as he’s told and follows her inside. Braun’s house is almost an exact copy of Porco’s: most of the houses in the internment zone are similar, rooms and furniture and all, though this one is surprisingly well kept. Braun’s pay must be enough to grant his mum a good life without her ever lifting a finger.

Porco waits in the corridor while Karina knocks on the door of Braun’s room, immediately walking in without waiting for an answer. He can hear her talking fast, in a hushed voice, and Braun’s subsequent groan as the bed creaks loudly under his weight.

“He’s up,” she announces then, walking out and closing the door behind her. “Give him a minute to get dressed. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

“Thank you, Miss Braun,” murmurs Porco, lowering his voice not to worsen Braun’s rough awakening too much. He waits until she disappears behind the corner before stepping up to the door, knocking on it lightly, just to make sure he can get in.

“Come in,” answers Braun’s voice, thick with sleep, and Porco does just that- though, as soon as he walks in, he wishes he’d waited a bit more.

Braun is facing away from him, and he's putting a shirt on, both arms down to his sides and disappearing into its sleeves, the visible muscles of his bare back shifting under his skin, shoulder-blades jutting out as he tugs the shirt up to cover himself. “Oh- shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s nothing,” he shrugs, turning around to offer Porco a small smile as he buttons down his shirt, a thin sliver of defined abdominal muscles exposed to Porco’s unblinking eyes. “What did you need?”

Porco waits until he’s done getting dressed, then blinks the sudden distraction away, his cheeks too warm for comfort. “I wanted to apologise,” he blurts out, “for… for almost getting caught at the briefing, back in Zeke’s- I mean, the War Chief’s room.”

Before Braun can interject, Porco adds, in a hurry, “and I wanted to thank you for covering me. That’s- that’s it.”

He should’ve just minded his own business, it’s clear as day: Porco just waltzed in, woke him up, didn’t even wait for him to finish getting dressed- he hasn’t even washed his face yet, for fuck’s sake. “I should’ve waited, I didn’t want to-”

“I said it’s nothing,” scoffs Braun then, the sound reverberating across the room and taking Porco’s breath away, a charm to it that reminds him of Zeke, somehow, and even Commander Magath when he gets softer, kinder, once in a blue moon. “I’m not comfortable with you apologizing so much.”

“Well, I said what I had to say,” sighs Porco, crossing his arms on his chest, though he lets them fall to his sides immediately, the temperature way too high in this room. “So I’ll be off now.”

“Already?”

He sounds genuinely taken aback. Porco stops, biting his lip: Braun is staring at him, confusion plain to see in his thin eyebrows, drawn together. “Yeah, I mean-”

“We could go somewhere,” he offers then out of the blue, voice still laden with sleep, as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “Hang out, if you will. If you’re up to it.”

Porco speaks before thinking: “alright,” he concedes, feeling more and more like a fish out of water. “Why not. Drinks?”

“I was thinking breakfast. I could do without alcohol in the morning.”

“Yeah, right. I’m not paying though,” snorts Porco, quickly shielding himself from the knowledge of having accepted to hang out with Braun of all people: he better be paying since he’s the one who came up with the idea, and his house looks a lot nicer than Porco’s anyway.

“Of course,” chuckles Braun, his shoulders shaking gently with empty, rehearsed laughter: Porco mirrors him half-heartedly, trying to tear the mental image of his exposed back out of his too-foggy mind.

Porco is reminded of their day out with the younger candidates, when they were helping them find suitable presents for Mother’s Day: the atmosphere is starkly different now, though, less chaotic. They’re walking leisurely, Braun’s cheeks full as he takes his time with his apple. He’s a slow eater: Porco’s finished already, though he’s not complaining, content with the comfortable silence they're sharing.

“This brings me back,” sighs Braun after swallowing his bite, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as Porco steals a furtive glance up at him. “I never thought you’d say yes.”

“Maybe I’m getting softer with age,” offers Porco, and he smirks, pleased with himself as Braun scoffs weakly at his joke.

“Maybe, yes.”

“We never did hang out when we were kids, though,” precises Porco after a while, Braun taking another bite of his apple, “we just sat together for lunch and talked about stuff.”

Before answering, Braun swallows audibly, his throat bobbing, and Porco’s gaze falls there of its own accord. “And isn’t that hanging out?”

Got him. Porco accepts his defeat with a raise of his eyebrows. “Yeah, whatever suits you.”

Braun looks entirely too pleased with himself as he finishes eating his apple, tossing its core in the nearest bin: when he’s done, wiping his lips with his tongue, his face falls slightly, and Porco doesn’t miss it.

“We were friends back then.”

“…yeah. We were, for a bit.”

Until he started being considered better than Porco, at least.

Before Braun can add anything, Porco straightens his back, pointing an accusatory finger towards him. “Oi, don’t get sidetracked like that. I woke you up to apologize and you didn’t even give a shit about it.”

“I’m not getting sidetracked?” says Braun, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.

Porco clicks his tongue as he retorts, “no, but you're being sappy over stupid things that I don’t give a fuck about. Who cares about us being friends."

“Whatever suits you,” blurts out Braun, mirroring Porco’s answer from before, and there it is- a hint of the cocky teenager that shows up in Ymir’s memories more often than not.

Clearing his throat loudly, Porco wills away, again, the mental image of Braun’s bare back from before. “Are you taking the piss?”

“I might be.”

“Then I’m going home, have fun on your own, you smart arse.”

Porco might be joking around, or he might not be: he stops dead in his tracks after having barely even started to walk away from him, when Braun grabs him by the arm. His grip is strong, warm, even through Porco’s jacket, and his head swims as he looks up at him.

It’s maybe the first time he can truly notice how thick Braun’s eyelashes are. They suit his eyes, and they make him feel dizzy.

“I don’t feel like being on my own lately,” he murmurs, his voice still booming down from his chest with how deep it is. He stops there, and Porco doesn’t need him to say anything else: he gets it, to a degree. A warrior’s thing, like Zeke called it sometime ago, and the exact reason why they all hang out even if they’re hardly friends anymore.

No one wants to be alone, no matter who it is at their side.

“Alright,” he concedes then, keeping his voice down, and they resume walking together, Porco’s arm feeling unnaturally cold when Braun removes his hand.

They ended up parting ways right before lunchtime, exchanging a few words every now and then, nothing too deep or personal: still, Porco can’t stop thinking about it.

He crawls into bed that night when it’s too late for him to be up, just a few hours left before dawn breaks. The temperature is rising steadily day by day, and it doesn’t help Porco’s usual lack of sleep: he strips down to his pants and throws his shirt somewhere off the bed before falling down on his back, just laying there, eyes wide open as he stares at the ceiling he hates so much.

When it’s clear he’s not getting more than a couple hours of sleep, Porco sighs, a particularly vulgar curse leaving his lips, before he stops turning around in bed to lay on his back and shove a hand down his pants: a wank is in order, and he hopes it’ll work like it usually does. It better.

He gives up when his mind keeps drifting off and thinking of idiotic bullshit, concentration lost for good when he ends up counting how many cigarettes he’s got left for the fourth time. The elastic band of his pants snaps loudly against his lower stomach as he removes his hand with another curse, squeezing his eyes shut, wondering how the hell Braun could’ve been sleeping so soundly that morning.

Porco is almost half asleep by the time he’s gone over their conversation from earlier that morning, reciting it as if he were counting sheep: his delirious, hazy thoughts conjure yet again the memory of Braun putting his shirt on, his skin pale under the sun coming through the window, and before Porco can stop himself he’s licking his lips.

His hand is snaking back under his pants now, skin warm and sensitive as he brushes against it, fingertips resting idly on his upper thigh for now. Porco realizes he’s holding his breath only when, focusing on what he remembers of Braun’s back- muscular, broad, and he can only imagine his front- he stops himself with a stilted gasp, feeling like he’s taking it too fast. Like he isn't enjoying it enough.

Porco’s never thought too much about his preferences and he feels that, if it were anyone other than Braun, he wouldn’t make such a big deal about it. He only allows these thoughts to come out now because he needs this: it’s the only thing that really gets him going, he discovers, and he seriously has to get some decent sleep every once in a while. So, fuck it.

Thinking back on that night after the stealth mission they went on, when they slept side by side, Porco tries to recall the smell of Braun’s skin: it’s a faint memory by now, though he can remember the texture of his soft hair as he grazed it with the tip of his nose, the fold behind his ear where the smell was muskier, stronger. Porco inhales deeply, his ribcage expanding as he raises his head to look down at himself, biting his lip at the sight: he starts pulling his pants down his thighs, lifting his hips off the bed as it creaks softly under his weight.

He shrugs out of them eventually, kicking them off the bed: his hand goes back to rest on his inner thigh, and he feels himself grow heavier on his lower stomach as he allows his mind to run wild, relying entirely on the few crumbs he’s gotten- the smell of his skin, muscles rippling across his back as he puts on the shirt, the warmth of his thigh back when Porco put his hand on it, that night when they were drunk and flirty and outright shameless, the subtle way Braun spread his legs further to invite Porco’s hand where he wanted it the most, because he wanted it, that much was clear.

“Fuck,” he hisses, taking himself in hand. It’s different from how he usually does it, quick and rough and short-lived. Now he uses both hands, one keeping the steady rhythm he likes the most, the other reaching down to cup his balls, to squeeze them, push the heel of said hand down just how he likes it, all while his head swims from side to side, throat hoarse with all the harsh, frantic breathing, his hips quivering as the heat keeps building, and building, seeking release.

Porco allows his thoughts to run completely free of boundaries- he dares to imagine what would’ve happened had he walked up to him, grabbed his wrists and stopped him from buttoning up that stupid, stupid shirt, so thin that it clung to his chest, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Maybe Braun would’ve let him take a better look, even touch, and maybe he would’ve liked it, they both would have: just imagining Braun's exposed skin under Porco's touch is enough to make him twitch in his own hand, and he groans, head falling back on the pillow, his throat bobbing as he swallows.

What does it for Porco is his voice- his deep, throaty, low voice that echoes in his ears whenever he speaks, the memory of it sending shivers down his spine and making his back arch, his thighs spasm, his mouth fall open as he throws his head forward, chin digging into his chest; he mouths indistinct gibberish as he finishes, and it’s longer, it’s drawn out, it’s like nothing he’s felt in a long while.

As his head falls back against the pillow, gasps bubbling out of his throat, harsh and loud, Porco hopes that everything will be back to normal the morning after, as if all this never happened.

“I’m not ditching the jacket. Forget it.”

“No can do,” giggles Pieck, holding up a black tie that Porco wants nowhere near his neck. “Orders are to dress fancy for the festival. So you can get your uniform out of the closet- if bugs haven’t eaten it all already, that is.”

“Fuck off,” he sneers, though he knows it’s a fight he’s already lost. Orders are orders, and they are to look sharp that evening for Willy Tybur’s public speech: Commander Magath would rather skin him alive than see him show up in his usual t-shirt and jacket combination.

“Just give up, Pokko. It’ll be over before you know it! Stop being such a child.”

“Fine,” he concedes, grabbing the tie from Pieck’s hands, roughly. “But I don’t know how to put this sodding thing on.”

Pieck’s shoulders shake with silent laughter as she suggests, “you could ask Reiner. He wears those almost every day.”

“Yeah, maybe I will,” he blurts out, making a face at the offensive piece of clothing, Pieck's joke flying right over his head. Her teasing doesn’t get to him as it used to, and he knows exactly the reason- though it’s better if he ignores it. “What time are we supposed to show up?”

“I think it’s eight. I think,” she squints, head tilting to the side. “Ask him that too, while you’re at it.”

“What am I, a postman?” snorts Porco, though he’ll do it anyway, he knows, and Pieck knows it too. There’s no way he’s going to bother Zeke or the Commander with such trivial questions, and their subsequent answers that they should know already. “Where’s he gone to, anyway? Better get this over with.”

“Writing a report in his room, probably. He's got a lot of homework, being the next War Chief and all.”

Pieck smiles in kind at her own words, though Porco can tell it pains her: in less than a year they’ll have to say goodbye to Zeke for good. It’s easy to push it at the back of their minds, most of the time: after all, they’ve known this would happen ever since they were told about the curse of the Founder. Seeing it unfold before their eyes, though, is proving to be harder than expected.

“I’m off then,” cuts short Porco, not to burden her too much with intrusive thoughts. Pieck smiles at him, a bit more convinced than before.

Only when he's standing in front of Braun's door, he questions it- why did he agree to come ask him how to put on a tie? Pieck knows how to do it, as well. Hell, Dad probably knows too. There's no need for him to come here, isn't there?

It's just like the other morning, his legs moving on their own, bringing him to the Brauns' doorstep, and now to his room at headquarters. Something that pulls him in, a call he can't ignore; an urge, the slight itch at the centre of his palms, the heel of his boot tapping repeatedly on the floor.

He's always been able to get under his skin more than anyone else, that's an indisputable talent he's got: Porco snorts at his own thoughts. He doesn't need to delve deeper into it.

As expected, Braun answers from inside his room as soon as Porco knocks. He walks in and Braun’s eyes widen when he sees him step inside, clearly not expecting him of all people, and he keeps staring all while Porco closes the door behind him.

“Hey,” he greets, hands clammy all of a sudden. “What time are we supposed to show up tonight? Also, I can’t put on a tie.”

He allows himself a quiet snort before getting up, abandoning his pen on the desk. “Alright,” he sighs, walking up to Porco and taking the tie from his hand, looking down at it as he says, “orders are to be in our seats before eight o’clock.”

“Makes sense,” answers Porco, just to say something, to mask his uneasiness as he stands there, Braun turning the tie in his hands before staring down at him, his expression unreadable.

“Take off your jacket,” he says, and Porco’s eyes shoot wide open.

“What.”

“I can’t show you how to tie it around your neck, the collar's in the way,” explains Braun in a practical tone, and Porco blurts out an awkward ‘oh’, doing as he’s told. He shrugs it off his arms and looks back up at Braun- his eyes must be playing tricks with him, because he’s sure that Braun’s gaze hesitated a bit too long on what’s exposed of his arms.

“So,” he starts, putting the fabric around Porco’s neck and tying it up with quick, nimble movements, “I’m going to tie it up looser than intended, then I'll take it off and show you how it’s done.”

“Alright,” mumbles Porco, biting the inside of his cheek as Braun’s knuckles brush against his collarbones more than once. He’s so close that whenever he inhales his nose is filled with the smell of his skin, and Porco is reminded of too many dangerous things at once- things he's promised himself he would ignore.

He better not think about that thing he's done. Not ever.

“You could always show up like this,” snorts Braun as he lets the tie fall down on Porco’s shirt, smoothing it against his chest with his hand: Porco’s rebuttal comes way, way too late, the short hair on the back of his neck standing up, his breathing faster than usual, and if Braun notices anything he’s decent enough not to point it out.

“That’s a quick way to get myself killed by the Commander,” he offers, stilted, finding a half smirk on Braun’s face. He doesn’t like the look of it- he’s definitely noticed Porco’s reaction. He better not get cocky about it.

“Take it off now,” says Braun, a flick of his tongue on his lower lip that Porco wills himself to ignore, and he tugs the loose tie off his head, grimacing at it.

“Yeah, thanks. How do I put it on properly though?”

“You just pull this,” he instructs, pointing at the longer piece of fabric dangling from the knot, “so it will tighten around your neck and you won’t have to do it from scratch next time.”

“Cool.”

They’re still too close. Porco keeps his head down, playing idly with the fabric, though he can feel Braun’s gaze on him. He’s afraid of what could happen if he dared to look up: he’s just standing there, unmoving, but no one can tell what they’ll both do next.

Eventually, Porco clears his throat, and risks it: he raises his chin, slowly, finding Braun with heavy-lidded eyes, lips in a tight, straight line, arms hanging limp at his sides. He blinks slowly, his thick, blond eyelashes shielding the guarded amber of his iris, and his lips part slightly when Porco’s tongue flicks out on his own lower one, out of nervousness. Their breaths mingle in the small space between their bodies, and there’s no room left for anything else- not for Porco’s frustration, for Braun’s guilt, for their past incomprehensions, for hatred and the weird, new, bubbling feeling that is slowly taking over Porco’s mind and, dare he say, his heart, entirely because of how tight it’s squeezed deep in his chest whenever he finds himself in such weird situations with Braun.

He wonders for a split second, a faraway thought, hysterical and useless, if anyone ever kissed those lips.

“I should finish up my report,” murmurs Braun then, his low voice sliding around Porco’s ears, trickling in, echoes of it rippling through his whole body, a chemical reaction that sets its insides on fire.

“Yeah,” he concedes, swallowing, “I owe you one for the tie. Saved me from a tight spot.”

Braun’s smile is awkward as it stretches across his mouth. “Don’t mention it. See you later.”

“See you.”

Porco closes the door behind him as he walks out, his heartbeat following the fast pace he starts walking at while he’s still holding both his jacket and tie in hand- as if he were running away, and the thought is so stupid he sneers at himself.

Zeke's eyebrows shoot up when he spots Porco and Pieck, and he holds his free hand up to greet them, averting his gaze almost immediately as they walk up to him and Colt.

The main square is filled to the brim tonight, people chatting and laughing as they stand around, drinks in hand, stopping on the way to their designated seats with no hurry whatsoever. Porco tries to swallow the awkwardness that clings to him, the tie maybe too loose around the collar of his shirt, the way the uniform is sitting too tightly on his body: he was a lot less bulkier when he was first given it, he reckons, plus he’s no fan of crowded places, much less of formalities. To top it off, they barely managed to get there on time: he hopes they won’t get scolded for it.

“Where’s Reiner?” asks Pieck then, looking around as if she could spot him on sight.

“He went to pick up Falco and the others,” says Colt, distress clear in the way his eyebrows are drawn together, “but they should’ve been here already…”

“Oh,” gasps then Pieck, audibly relieved, “there they are.”

Porco glances at the small group making its way towards them, and he sees Braun's eyes widen ever so slightly as their gazes meet: he looks away before he can betray himself, and doesn’t dare to look back and see his reaction.

“Where’s Falco?” asks Colt, and Udo fixes his glasses before answering, his shrill voice barely audible as the crowd keeps talking and laughing louder and louder.

“He ran off a minute ago saying that he found someone he knew,” he offers.

“What if he's late? Our orders are to be in our seats on time, you know,” scoffs Porco. Right now, of all times? He’s not sure he understands what goes through that kid’s mind, honestly. He reminds him of someone.

Right as Porco closes his mouth, Pieck spots him, too: he’s all sweaty, breathing heavily as he walks up to Braun, looking up with sparkling eyes as Gabi glares at him, her scoffed “where’d you go” completely ignored by Falco.

“Mister Braun, could you come with me for a second?” he pants, a grin pulling at his lips as Braun’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Right now?” he asks, his expression nothing short of hilarious: Porco hides a smirk as he scratches lazily at his chin.

“I think it’s fine,” assures Zeke, unusually silent as he glances at his watch, “we’ve still got time before the curtain rises.”

Porco glares at Braun as he walks off, following Falco’s lead without even questioning why. He scoffs, hoping they won’t be punished for them being late- because it’s going to happen, of course.

As they sit down in their designated spots, Pieck busies herself entertaining Udo and Zofia, who are clearly more on the talkative side than Gabi is, or even Zeke, for that matter: Colt tries his luck addressing Porco a few times, but surrenders shortly after, Porco himself not being in the mood for anything at all tonight.

“It’s incredible what the Tybur family is capable of,” says Colt then, voice full of wonder as he listens to Pieck's endless list of odd facts about the Tybur family and their achievements. The internment zone is effectively packed with people: Porco never saw anything quite like this, though it still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He never sided with this plan in the first place, either.

“To think that they’re Eldians just like us,” he blurts out, knowing he’ll be ignored for the sake of not bringing the mood down.

The trumpets start blaring right behind them, Porco’s loud curse lost amid the sudden noise: it’s about to start, and both Braun and Falco are nowhere to be seen.

Just then, a tall, lanky Marleyan guard walks up to them: “Warriors, Commander Magath has summoned you,” they announce in a hoarse voice, and Porco blinks at that, though he doesn’t question their orders. Whatever reason the Commander has for calling them must be good.

Porco, Pieck and Zeke rise from their seats, leaving the kids in Colt’s care to follow the guard dutifully. They walk back to the main street that leads to the gate, and right before walking around the corner the guard raises an arm in the other direction. “Jaeger, you keep going to the front gate. You two, this way.”

Zeke accepts his orders and walks away, Porco stuffing both hands in his pockets as Pieck makes a low, tutting noise behind her closed lips.

“I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before,” she says, “what unit do you belong to?”

“I’ve always been stationed to the west, in Lakua,” answers the guard after a few seconds of hesitation, “I was called up here to help with security. I don’t have any interest in chatting with Eldians.”

“That’s too bad. I was just admiring your beard,” sings Pieck, her voice nothing short of flirty, much to Porco’s irritation. Right before he can tell her to cut it out, her head snaps to the side towards a group of men, calling her name with pointed interest.

“Oh- the panzer unit!” she chirps, hopping towards them as she throws her arms around the shortest soldier’s neck. “I never thank you for working so hard!”

Porco scoffs, this time very loudly, at her behaviour: she’s acting too weird for comfort, and even the panzer unit is taken aback, all of them barely returning her enthusiasm, mostly taken aback by her ‘very good mood’, as one of them puts it.

“What are you doing? Let’s go,” barks the guard, their raspy voice grating at Porco’s ears beyond belief.

As soon as Pieck hops back to his side, Porco questions her, not even bothering with hiding his irritation. “What was all that about?”

“Our fates are tied, you know? We’ve gotta stay friendly!” she explains, an easy smile on her face as her heads tilts to one side then the other.

“You sure you didn’t just cause more problems doing that?” questions Porco, the troubled expressions on the soldiers' faces rubbing him the wrong way.

Eventually they make it to an old, disused storage room. The guard directs them to the door in the back, motioning for them to walk inside, and they do just that. Porco clears his throat: the room is completely empty, save for a table and a few chairs around it. “Where’s Commander Magath-”

“Porco!” shrieks Pieck, but before he can do anything, he’s suspended in mid-air; then, his head snaps down, and all he sees is darkness as both he and Pieck fall down right into the guard’s trap.


	13. 13 - cloudless every day you fall upon my waking eyes, inviting and enciting me to rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have at thee, lovely people who keep reading this!  
> enjoy <3

“Fucking hell, that hurt.”

Porco grimaces at his forearm, snapped in half, wrist hanging in a disgustingly unnatural position, flesh barely latching onto bone under his uniform: Pieck’s legs are broken, too, and in a matter of seconds their bodies start healing, pain fizzling away as they take in their surroundings.

“They put straw down here, at least,” observes Pieck, “it could’ve been a lot worse. We only broke a few bones anyway.”

“How nice of them,” scoffs Porco, as his fingers twitch tentatively. “So what's this place?”

Pieck looks up at the top of the pit, irritation lacing her words together. “It’s a way to detain warriors. Marley has a number of these prepared… pretty old-fashioned, but it does what it's supposed to. We can’t turn into Titans in a place this cramped.”

Looking up as well, Porco clicks his tongue. “Yeah, that'd be suicide. There's two of us.”

“There’s a lot down here though- food, water,” grunts Pieck as she leans forward, digging into a pile of straw and producing various things out of it- even a portable toilet, of all things. They both stare at it in disgust, as Pieck lets it fall back on the straw, wiping her hand on her skirt just in case.

“…anyway. That lanky soldier- what are they thinking?”

“Dunno,” sighs Pieck, sitting back and grimacing at her still healing leg. “They could be following orders from Marley, or they could be acting alone… though I’ve seen them somewhere before, I’m sure about that.”

Porco eyes the bottle of water, feeling thirsty all of a sudden; he’s not that interested in the soldier’s identity, to be honest- he’d much rather make sure that nothing’s happening in the plaza, especially now that they’re trapped here. He wonders where Zeke is, if he’s fallen into the same trap as them.

Being the first one to heal completely, Pieck stands up, legs still unsteady, and she starts prodding at the brick wall for reasons unknown. Porco stands up as well after his wrist snaps back in place, and he barely has the time to feel useless and lost before something comes to mind, all of a sudden.

“Oi,” he hesitates, Pieck stopping her prodding to glance at him over her shoulder, “the soldier didn’t even mention that Braun was missing from our group.”

At those words, Pieck’s eyebrows shoot up. “You think Falco fell for a different trap and brought Reiner with him?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what happened, yeah,” he nods with bated breath. “Something’s up- who would miss the chance to strike right now when we’re all missing from the crowd?”

Pieck turns back around, considering Porco’s words with a sigh. She’s about to say something, though a sudden thumping noise starts rising in the background, getting increasingly louder by the second.

“What’s going on,” exhales Porco, and he glances at Pieck, trying to find comfort in her apparent calm.

“...I think that two Titans are fighting.”

Porco barely contains a curse. “No fucking way.”

“That explains why we’ve been confined here,” she considers, grimacing, “we need to hurry up and get out.”

“Yeah, thanks. How, though?”

There’s a faint cracking noise coming from outside the pit, then, that sounds very much like boots stepping on wood- then, right as Pieck mumbles that ‘help should be coming’, someone curses, a few meters above them.

“You’re late!” shouts Pieck, tilting her chin upwards: Porco mirrors her and he can see two soldiers of the panzer unit staring down at them, completely clueless.

“Pieck!? Are you okay?”

“Get us a rope, fast!” she yells back, impatience building up quickly in her voice and mannerism. They scramble out of their sight to do just that, much to Porco’s entertainment: it’s always validating to see Marleyan soldiers scatter off and follow orders from an Eldian warrior, especially when there’s very poor manners involved.

“How did they get here?” he asks, relief lifting his voice, though Pieck is still hunched forward, deep in thought.

“I knew that guard was bad news, so I decided to make a move.”

That explains the sudden hug with that member of the unit when they were following the guard: Pieck must've alerted them back then. Porco is genuinely impressed. He’s glad he didn’t fall into this trap alone, otherwise he would’ve been doomed.

As soon as they make it out the pit, Pieck leads their small group, asking rapid-fire questions about whatever went down during their absence.

“A Titan attacked the plaza during the speech!” explains the taller soldier, walking right beside Pieck, and Porco almost stops dead in his tracks.

“What!?”

“The War Hammer Titan is fighting it as we speak,” he adds, though he’s interrupted by Pieck as she asks the whereabouts of the Cart’s armor and the logistics of putting it on suitably fast to reach the battlefield in time.

Porco’s mind starts racing: it’s a sentient Titan, no questions asked, and it can’t be the Colossal, or the whole internment zone would’ve been wiped out in the blink of an eye. It can’t be the Female Titan with Annie being held hostage and all, so that leaves out…

“I’m going ahead!” he shouts, breaking off from the group, but he freezes on the spot as Pieck’s words of warning barely reach him.

His head snaps up, towards the sky: it’s a noise he knows all too well, it’s the ODM gear he saw in Ymir’s memories- then, he actually sees with his own eyes a group of people flying across the night, hooks grappling onto the surrounding buildings as they advance undisturbed.

“Shit,” he gasps, knowing full well where they’re headed to.

“No,” exhales Pieck, eyes wide as she stares at the gas trails left behind, “how could it be…”

Porco doesn’t have any answers to Pieck’s question: but then again, he hardly gives a fuck about the how's and why's right now.

He springs forward, running in the direction the Paradis forces flew, ignoring Pieck’s plea of waiting for whatever it is she wants, there’s no way he’s going to stay put and follow orders now, of all times- blood pumps fast and hot through Porco’s whole body as he bites down on his hand, knife be damned, the small explosion of his transformation blowing a handful of bricks off a nearby house.

The Jaw Titan leaps upwards, digging its claws into the side of the tallest building around, and it crawls its way towards the plaza, knowing that the Paradis soldiers are going to notice it sooner or later. Everyone’s read Braun’s report in detail, so they know a thing or two about their anti-Titan equipment, though this looks nothing like it: they’re faster, and Porco can’t see any scabbard tied around their thighs. They seem to be carrying several thunder spears, though- he remembers Braun describing them as the closest thing to a shock of lightning, in his report.

Porco is faster, anyway: he’s prepared, too, and that’s why when he takes advantage of a narrow gap between two houses, leaping up into the sky, he chomps on a couple of wires there, effectively snapping them in half. The soldiers crash down instantly, and he takes advantage of the remaining ones’ disbelief, running forward and making quick work of them with the Jaw’s hardened claws.

He decides to lie low for the time being, crawling back down and following the road that leads to the plaza- or what’s left of it, he discovers, as the Jaw Titan stops, resting on its hind legs.

There’s nothing except ruins, dead bodies, blood marking what little remains of the neighboring buildings. Porco lets out a shaky exhale as he takes in the scene in front of him, the Attack Titan kneeling down as the War Hammer lies, defeated, among rubble and smoke. It’s holding a crystal in its hand, the War Hammer’s owner probably protecting themselves inside it- there’s no more time, so he runs, fast, like he’s never done before.

It's the moment he's been waiting for- his best shot at retaking the Founder, and probably his last one, too: he makes sure to dig the Jaw’s hardened claws in its shoulder as it latches onto it, grabbing the Attack Titan’s hair to shove its head to the side, opening its maw to sink its teeth into flesh, right on the nape; except that his Titan’s jaw falls open, slack, and before Porco can fully register it, the Attack Titan jumps backwards, causing Porco’s Jaw to be crushed right between its body and the nearest building.

As the Attack Titan reaches around with its arm and tugs forcefully on the Jaw’s hair, Porco spots someone flying around them- he can see blades, a small frame, so fast you can miss it if you blink at the wrong moment, and his heart skips a beat.

_Was that him just now_ , he thinks with bated breath, _could it really have been Levi Ackerman?_

It only makes sense: he was so fast that he cut his jaw off in a split second, being completely faithful to Braun’s description of his feats. Before he can get another opening, Porco slashes open the Attack Titan’s wrist and leaps away from him, knowing full well that he’s completely fucked if he doesn’t get out of here, and fast-

Its claws never sink into the building as a strong, sudden explosion right under its body blasts the Jaw off to the ground: Porco doesn’t even try to get back up, instead finding himself staring up at them, a group of Paradis soldiers flying around, thunder spears ready in spades.

"Are you all crazy? I’m a Titan," he scoffs. Are a bunch of ordinary Eldians really going to try to kill him? A Warrior?

Porco tries to stand up, but the blast’s gotten the best of him, the Jaw Titan unable to move its limbs for the time being: then he sees even more of them, almost raining down on him, Levi Ackerman leading them- and all Porco can think is that these people are not ordinary Eldians, not in the least.

They're actual devils.

It’s artillery fire that saves him: the Paradis soldiers scatter off, though it manages to blast off a good bunch of them. Porco looks up towards the roof of the military headquarters, and he spots the Cart Titan, its armor in place, the panzer unit commanding it from the inside.

“Pieck!” he calls out, more for his own relief than anything else. Now the Jaw can move, it seems, but Porco barely manages to get it upright before the War Hammer emerges from the ground, its spears impaling the Attack Titan’s body like a tree growing out of concrete and rubble.

The Paradis soldiers are ready to jump off and concentrate their attacks on the War Hammer, but Levi Ackerman stops right on top of a tower, turning at the sound of heavy, slow footsteps getting closer and closer: Zeke’s Beast Titan is drawing near, the Jaw Titan running immediately to its side, Pieck’s Cart galloping on the roof of the nearest building to gather near them, too.

“Don’t let them escape. Wipe them out,” is the Beast’s order, and as soon as it stops talking, Porco darts off the ground.

Getting closer to the Attack Titan is impossible right now, so they’ll have to rely on the War Hammer holding its own for a bit longer: Porco willingly throws the Jaw under the Beast’s range of attack, avoiding the rubble with little effort as it tries to claw its way through and get to the Attack Titan before it can eat the War Hammer. Pieck and the panzer unit are covering both the Jaw and the Beast effectively, several Paradis soldiers wasting their thunder spears, unable to take proper aim.

They figure it out quickly, though: Porco stops in his tracks and runs back towards Pieck’s Cart, the enemy soldiers having realized that its weak point is directly above, where the panzer unit can't reach. Nothing he can’t handle, as the Jaw springs upwards and slashes the lone soldier up there in two.

“Thanks, Pokko!” exclaims the Cart as the Jaw lands on the roof, “you saved us-”

“Stay on your toes!” he shouts, tearing his way out the nape of the Jaw, “we lost sight of Levi Ackerman! He’s hiding somewhere around here!”

“What- Porco! The War Hammer!”

Everyone freezes as the Attack Titan’s jaw shatters around the crystal in its hand, the holder of the War Hammer lying inside it, unfazed. It’s clear that there’s no way he’s giving up like that- Eren Jaeger leaps off the Attack Titan’s nape, shifting again, another Attack Titan landing right in front of them.

“That bastard,” exhales Porco, hands shaking with seething rage, “he wasn’t finished yet… if we could just take him out and get back the Founder-”

“What are you so worried about, Pokko?” interjects the Cart, getting Porco’s full attention, “there’s no need to panic. This battlefield is under our control now: we’re closing in on all our enemies.”

Porco sneers as Pieck keeps analyzing the situation from inside the Cart, maybe to clear his mind, though it doesn’t help as much as she thinks. “They decided to take the field with their maneuvering equipment, so they have limited weapons and fuel, stranded in enemy territory with no supply lines. They’re pretty much cornered rats, and the Marleyan army should be surrounding the internment zone by now, so there’s no escape route. The Paradis forces never had the numbers to take on Marley in a proper war.”

“Yeah, and that's why I’m saying that if we can just get the Founder,” shouts Porco, not bothering with whatever the Marleyan army is trying to do, “that’ll take away the ace up their sleeve- the Rumbling! And now’s our only chance to strike!”

“That’s exactly why we should proceed with caution!” shouts back Pieck, having none of Porco’s impulsiveness, clearly. “Anyway, all we need to do right now is protect the War Chief from Ackerman.”

The Beast Titan chuckles as it gathers rubble in its massive hands, standing back up as it croons, “thank you, Pieck. You’re exactly right,” before shooting in all directions, making quick work of the remaining Paradis soldiers.

“Eren Jaeger is not my enemy,” it adds, then, “someone else comes first… show yourself, Levi. You can’t afford to wait, can you?”

Right then, the earth shakes- it’s stronger than any earthquake, the building under them rattling as if it were afraid, and Porco’s blood runs cold as his head snaps towards the port, a blinding light rising from the sea, blowing the stars off the sky.

Then, the blast: Porco sinks his Titan’s claws into the roof of the building there, holding on for dear life. He grits his teeth, hard, almost to the point of cracking them, he feels.

_The Colossal Titan_ , he realizes, rage coursing through his whole body. A flash- Bertolt, a child, holding the rifle in his tiny little arms, his round cheeks perking up as Commander Magath praises him for the third time in the span of a single morning, his kind smile whenever someone speaks to him... Porco roars, allowing the Jaw to suck him back into its nape before leaping off, completely ignoring Pieck’s call.

As it jumps closer to the Attack Titan, he spots her- the other Ackerman, dropping her thunder spears and opting for her blades, as she shifts into an attacking stance: Porco springs upwards in her direction, accepting her challenge.

“She’s fast,” he spits, gritting his teeth in both irritation and fury, trying to make sense of her quick movements. She almost gets a clean hit on him, but Porco is fast, too: he avoids it just barely, the Jaw’s hind legs ready to leap towards her, when they both freeze- the Beast Titan’s fallen to the ground, a sudden blast blowing his nape open.

Porco can barely shake the other Ackerman off and retreat safely on the roof of a building, when another blast goes off on the opposite side of it: they got Pieck as well, the Cart Titan dropping to the ground, armor crashing and burning, enveloped in steam.

“First Zeke, and now Pieck… were they really defeated?” he says aloud, finding his own voice shaking- it never happened, Porco was always the one who got himself into dangerous situations, the one who had to be saved, both of them always ready at his side, back when he admired Zeke, and when he fancied Pieck, when everything was different, better-

Back when Paradis forces weren’t crushing Liberio to the ground.

“You son of a bitch!” he shouts at the top of his lungs, avoiding Ackerman’s slashes and going right for the Attack Titan: the damn bastard is fast, too, a hardened punch ready to crush his face.

Porco is even faster than him, he knows, no one can compare to his speed: he grabs the Attack Titan’s forearm with both claws, biting its wrist off to neutralize its hardened punch, slashing at his eyes to incapacitate him; before Eren Jaeger can even begin to guess whatever the fuck is happening to his Titan, the Jaw holds its claw on the top of the Attack Titan’s head, swinging in mid-air to get its other eye- though the Attack Titan shoves the crystal keeping the holder of the War Hammer right in front of its face, and the Jaw’s hit grazes it, missing his chance.

Before Ackerman can get him, Porco runs off on the War Hammer’s spears born from the ground, catching his breath and assessing the situation. He’s on his own, now, so he’s got to play his cards carefully if he wants to win this.

He sees Ackerman turn her head backwards, so he follows her line of vision, too: up in the sky, proceeding swiftly, is something that resembles the Marleyan zeppelins of the airborne unit, though it’s different, much slower, too, as it sinks down below the top of the tallest buildings that are still standing.

Like Porco would ever let them get away scot free. He resumes his charge, this time towards the zeppelin-like ship; he floats in mid-air though, for a split second, blood spurting out of the Jaw’s ankles as Ackerman slashes them off.

“No,” he gasps, the Jaw falling right into the Attack Titan’s grasp as it tears both of its arms off, shoving the crystal between its teeth and holding it up in the air, right above its own open mouth.

“Oi, oi- are you fucking kidding me?” shouts Porco inside his Titan, completely powerless as the Jaw’s fangs sink into the crystal, the Attack Titan using it to free the War Hammer’s holder and eat them. “Stop it, _please_ , stop-”

Hardened crystal breaks between the Jaw’s fangs, its mouth falling open, now useless to the Attack Titan: it gulps down the War Hammer’s holder, then doesn’t waste a second, blocking the Jaw with both arms and pushing it down on the ground, smashing its head repeatedly until the armor on its muzzle shatters.

It gets Porco’s head, too: his vision blurs, mouth falling open, slack, much like his Titan’s. He’s only partly aware of the Attack Titan now tugging its hair aside, exposing its nape, right where Porco is resting, drifting in and out of consciousness as he’s barely held upright from the Titan flesh clinging to his face.

He’s going to eat him any second now. Eren Jaeger just won.

Right as Porco allows his eyelids to close, the Attack Titan stops: there’s a distant noise he can barely hear, the left side of his head throbbing painfully, and soon he can’t make out a single sound that comes from outside the Jaw’s nape. He’s shoved around in the air, then, Porco barely reacting to it as blood starts trickling out of his nose, then a rougher tug on the Jaw’s hair, and he’s flying off again, crashing down on the ground, another painful hit to its head: this time Porco coughs blood out of his mouth, thick and boiling hot as it drips down his chin.

He tries with all he’s got to stay awake, to fight it, to understand what’s happening out there: but his eyes roll back into his head, and he can’t feel his hands anymore, his neck tingling as he loses consciousness.

Porco wakes up with a bitter taste on his tongue, his throat hoarse beyond belief, head throbbing painfully.

Someone is running back and forth around him, and they’re not wearing boots, the noise surprisingly gentler than he feared: he can hear a small kid complaining about not being able to find a vein in a patient’s arm, then an older voice, maybe a woman, clicking their tongue and telling the kid to sit back and learn instead of crying, that tears are not going to help anyone. Porco lets his head fall to the side, and it sinks deeper into the pillow, the sensation eliciting a low, broken hum from his throat.

“Oh, you’re awake,” whispers someone, somewhere to his left. It’s Pieck.

“Pieck,” he repeats aloud, head lolling to the other side now, towards her. “Thirsty,” he croaks eloquently, and she huffs a hint of a laugh, nothing more.

“You’re not doing too well.”

“Mm,” he nods, grimacing immediately after: his chin hurts, too, but he can feel steam floating around him, so he must be healing up.

“Get some more sleep, then.”

He does just that.

The second time around, his eyes snap open immediately, and he’s greeted by the ceiling of the Liberio hospital staring back at him.

Porco glances to his left: Pieck is sitting on the edge of her bed, legs dangling off it as she gives him a tight-lipped smile that vanishes immediately after. “Good evening.”

No time for anything like that. “What happened,” he exhales, voice cracking halfway through.

Pieck sighs, crumpling up on herself as she averts her eyes. “They got away. They got the War Hammer and retreated safely.”

“I know that already,” seethes Porco, trying to sit up, his back popping loudly in sign of protest. “Where’s Zeke? Is he-”

“He’s not here,” she interjects. “They’re still looking.”

“Still what?”

“It’s been a day and a half. They’re still looking for people… under the rubble,” clarifies Pieck, her voice breaking as she whispers, “it's mostly corpses anyway.”

Porco falls back down, his elbows giving out under the weight of his body. “Where are the others then, where’s the Commander, the kids, where-”

“Died,” she interrupts, voice unwavering, as Porco’s mouth falls open. “Udo and Zofia died. Gabi is missing. Falco is nowhere to be seen. Commander Magath got a concussion. Hundreds of people are either dead or missing, just like them.”

“No,” breathes out Porco, his jaw shaking ever so slightly. “No, what… no…”

“I don’t know where Colt is, either,” continues Pieck, shrugging, “or my father, and your parents, for that matter.”

He should’ve bought a stupid scarf for Mother’s Day, too, just like Udo did back then- Udo is dead, now, and Zofia, too. Porco blinks back a sigh, staring back up at the ceiling.

They were kids. Gabi used to give both of them hell for having their birthdays later than her... now she won't be able to do that anymore. She's missing, too. And Falco, and where is Colt, and is the Commander alright, and-

“Reiner is still fast asleep, anyway,” blurts out Pieck, then, and Porco’s heart skips a beat. “If you care.”

Of course he cares. Of fucking course he does. “Where is he,” he murmurs, with bated breath. Something pulls, there’s an itch in his lower back, he has to get up, to go see him, to ask questions- namely, where the fuck was he all along?

“There,” answers Pieck, turning her head to the side: Porco follows her line of sight and spots him in the bed right next to Pieck’s, laying completely straight, unmoving, not even a twitch of his eyelids, no rise and fall of his chest, absolutely nothing. A statue.

He looks like he’s dead.

“…is he alright?” asks Porco, suddenly putting all the pieces together. It must’ve been him, he showed up and fought the Attack Titan off, didn’t he? That’s why he’s in such bad shape.

Pieck’s eyes are wet as she turns back and answers, “he saved your life.”

His heart stutters.

"...how-"

"Commander Magath cut both of you out of your Titans, even if he was bleeding like a dead man would," she adds, words mushed together as she tries to control her breathing, "he was unconscious, and cold. Didn't even know how he could stand up to protect you."

“But he’s alive now,” interjects Porco, his breathing faster, “isn’t he? Like… he’s-”

“They had to revive him,” continues Pieck, staring off into nothingness with glassy eyes as her voice breaks, “like an ordinary person, he wouldn’t heal, he… there were so many, so many medics and nurses around his bed, and I was here and I couldn’t even stay close to him.”

He can’t believe what he’s feeling, now- the way his heart shrinks at every word that comes out of Pieck’s mouth, at knowing that, while he was passed out, Braun was there, just two beds away from him, fighting for his life like every other person, like a common Eldian conveniently forgotten in a hospital room. He can’t believe he could’ve died, right then and there, with no warning.

Porco remains silent, allowing Pieck to keep herself busy with talking, so that all her trembling will be less noticeable. “He’s started healing after a while, so he’s fine, now, but it’s taking much longer than it should… I’m afraid, you know?”

Nurses come and go, fast, focused, and Porco barely notices them. They're both silent now, don't even bid each other goodnight when Pieck lies back in bed, refusing to eat her dinner and willing herself to fall asleep, all while trying to muffle her sniffling.

Porco allows himself to breathe, for now. He lies back when it’s dark outside, quiet snoring coming from all the beds in the room, except for his, and for Braun’s.

It takes him five minutes at most before his eyelids slide down, tired.

“Hey, Christa. My hand got skinned, too.”

The boy named Connie scoffed at Ymir’s words, then suggesting her to “just spit on it”, much to Ymir's irritation.

Ymir was watching Christa- well, Historia, as she bandaged Braun’s arm. They appeared to be in the same tower from that other memory Porco once saw, though this one's a different room, it seems: Bertolt was there, too, and he looked like he’d just been through hell, for whatever reason. He was staring right at Braun with unblinking eyes.

“Reiner,” said then Connie, a hint of awkwardness to his demeanour, “I’m sorry about just now, it’s like you’re always saving my arse. Oh- about that, Annie risked her life to save me, too… I need to repay you someday, I guess."

At those words, Braun’s eyes widened. Something- a flash of the man Porco knows now passed right through his gaze, for a split second: then, he murmured, averting his eyes, “for that? It was my duty… we’re soldiers after all.”

“Really?” scoffed Connie, “I’m not so sure that I could jump right in front of a Titan as you just did… hey, Bertolt?”

Porco- well, Ymir, noticed that Bertolt barely reacted to Connie's words, head turning ever so slowly, as if acknowledging his words could be dangerous.

"Has he always been like that?" asked Connie, scratching at his head, and there's ice, thin, cold, unforgiving, in Bertolt's gaze as it sets on Braun. Ice, and something else, frozen inside, waiting.

"No... Reiner was a warrior, once," he answered, Braun's eyes widening at hearing those words- eyes wide, empty, unfocused.

"Warrior? What do you mean?"

“Is there any booze in here?”

The small girl looks up at Porco, eyes growing wide as she takes in his request. “You mean alcohol, sir?”

“Whatever you’ve got, doesn’t matter,” he croaks, tasting the shape of his upper gums with his tongue. “I need lots of it.”

“Drinking is forbidden in here,” she recites then, turning away from Porco so she can check the IV of the patient in the other bed. “I can get you some water if you’re thirsty.”

Porco sighs, falling back down on the pillow. “No, thanks. Sorry for bothering you.”

The small, improvised nurse runs off then, out of the room, probably to get someone more experienced to change the patient’s IV properly. Porco turns his head to the other side, towards Pieck’s bed, finding her staring right back at him, laying in the exact same position.

"I'm bored. I need a drag so fucking bad," he grunts, Pieck pursing her lips, visibly disinterested.

"Smoking's forbidden here."

"Should’ve brought cards,” he murmurs then, getting the slightest shadow of a smile out of Pieck. That’s a start.

“I feel like we’ve been here for weeks,” she whispers, and Porco can see it clearly in her eyes how afraid she is, how lost she feels, and whatever else it is that is brewing in her mind. “No one can come here, and we can’t get out until we’re fully healed.”

“I am fully healed,” protests Porco, but Pieck shakes her head at that, grimacing.

“I am, too, but I don’t mean it like that.”

“Then what do you mean.”

Pieck lowers her voice even more, head digging deeper into the pillow as she explains, “Zeke isn’t here, is he? Something’s happened. They never, ever separate us when we’re recovering.”

“…you think they still haven’t found him?” tries Porco.

“I think they did. But… not the way they expected.”

It’s not easy. It took Porco literal years to say it out loud, that Marcel is dead: he supposes Pieck feels like this too, now, like a part of her, an extension of her limbs, disappeared.

He decides to play dumb for the moment, to avoid hurting her even more. “I think they’re going to tell us only when they’re sure of what happened. No point in worrying now."

Pieck nods, a wobbly smile that rewards Porco. “Thank you.”

Her voice, then, gets caught in her throat- a sob? Maybe, though she adds, immediately after, “I hope Reiner will wake up soon, too.”

Of course she had to try and console him in return, being openly hopeful for his important person, too- that’s what she thinks, always associating the two of them ever since they were kids, no matter if they were on speaking terms or not. Usually Porco fights back, scoffs at her, refutes her conclusions with cruel jokes, sarcasm, various profanities, a click of his tongue when he couldn’t be bothered, and now it feels like a lifetime’s passed, like the only thing he truly wants is to wake up and cross the distance between their beds, and just be there, with him, in the same space, on the same wavelength.

It hits Porco and punches the air out of his lungs- no one else would willingly put themselves through all of this, Porco's hostility, his resentment, the whole package, and still stand up to risk their life to protect him, of all things.

Braun could've died back there. Hell, he _was_ dying, but got up anyway. He protected Porco.

He likes to think of himself as pretty fluent in sarcasm and all it entails, but fate's got the upper hand this time. Nothing can beat that.

“I hope so, too,” he murmurs eventually, turning away from Pieck when his vision starts to blur too much.

“Excuse me,” pipes up someone, then: the small girl from before walks up to Porco’s bedside, and he rubs at his eyes insistently, feigning a yawn before answering with an unsteady grunt. “I brought it.”

Porco’s eyes shoot open, pride be damned. “You- what?”

She’s blushing, a mischievous smile on her little freckled face, three full bottles of third-rate wine held tightly in her thin arms. “I got them from the dining room. This is booze, isn’t it?”

Despite the ache he feels all over, for various reasons, Porco sits up, a grin spreading on his lips as he takes the bottles from her grasp, gently. “How did you get these?”

“I just said that the cute boy in the furthest room wanted some,” she explains matter-of-factly, and runs out of the room, again, to go back to her duties.

Porco’s head cranes to the left, and he exchanges glances with Pieck, before handing her one of the bottles: she accepts it without hesitating, sitting up straight as they both tear the lid off and take a quick swig, synchronized, just like they used to on their first shared missions when Zeke would hand them the ‘grownup beverage’, as he called it back then.

It’s a fond memory that softens the burning taste as it splashes down Porco’s throat, and he chugs it down, unfazed by Pieck’s empty giggle when she stops to catch her breath.

“Drunkard,” she coughs, sticking her tongue out. “This tastes really, really bad.”

“It does,” gulps Porco as he sets down the bottle, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Guess we’re lucky. Imagine if that girl found you ugly, what she could’ve given you then.”

Porco almost chuckles at Pieck’s easy joke. “I don’t think she could’ve picked something worse than this.”

“Who knows,” sighs Pieck, sitting on the edge of her bed, towards Braun, and when Porco notices he instinctively shifts forward to get off the bed, too. “Maybe after a quick trip to the bathroom…”

“Please,” he snorts, still holding his bottle as he walks past Pieck's bed on unsteady legs, grabbing the chair nearby and lifting it with some effort, setting it down against the wall close to Braun’s bed.

Pieck notices it, and her smile grows, this time actually reaches her eyes. “Or maybe she just emptied a patient’s bedpan-”

“You’re so fucking gross,” guffaws Porco now, sitting down in the chair, though he speaks in a softer, lower voice, and his attention is stolen away pretty fast. Pieck doesn’t say anything else after that, she just sits there, dangling her legs off the edge of the bed, a silent presence that comforts Porco as he turns to look at him.

Braun’s moved his head in his sleep, apparently: it lolls to the side now, lips barely parted, his breathing steadier, louder- alive. The roots of his hair are unwashed, slightly darker, but Porco doesn’t mind, they don’t even smell, and it’s like his hair tries to curl up on the top of his head, when in this state. It’s endearing.

He's alive.

There’s so many things he wants to tell him.

“You think he’ll wake up soon?” Porco hears himself murmur after he takes another swig, gaze tracing Braun’s features, back and forth, again and again.

“Probably,” she answers after gulping down the last of her bottle. “I feel dizzy.”

Porco scoffs, though he doesn’t turn to glance at her. “I bet, you downed almost all of it in one go.”

She stands up to put the bottle on the floor, next to Porco’s chair, then sits back down with a tired sigh. Porco does the same, drinking the last of his wine and setting it down, as she passes him the third bottle, still untouched. “I’m not drinking anymore. Go ahead if you want.”

“No, it’s fine,” he grumbles, eyes always, always darting back to Braun, at the way he just straightened his head, going back to the position he’s been in for two whole days. Then- he draws his eyebrows together, suddenly, a murmur rattling in the back of his throat, Pieck audibly holding her breath somewhere behind Porco.

Porco’s heart jumps as Braun opens his eyes, a hoarse gasp bursting from his lips- then he sits up, tugging the sheets away from his body as he pants, eyes glassy, unfocused, sweat rolling down the side of his neck.

His heart is still beating fast as he asks, “bad dreams?”, and Braun’s head immediately snaps towards them as he blinks, several times, so he can focus and actually see them.

He looks scared. Porco grabs the neck of the bottle and hands it to him. “If only it’d all been a dream,” he scoffs, trying his best to mask the turmoil currently running wild under his skin.

It’s like he doesn’t even see Porco, or Pieck, for that matter: Braun’s eyes are wide as he asks, his voice strained, “I heard Gabi and Falco’s voices, where are they…?”

Porco tuts. “Just take this,” he insists, dangling the bottle in front of Braun’s eyes. “It’ll make things easier.”

He does just that, reaching for the neck of the bottle with a shaking hand, fingers brushing against Porco’s for a split second- right there, warmth jolts through Porco’s spine, and it’s gone in a flash.

“We don’t know much,” helps Pieck, Braun’s head darting towards her, away from Porco, and he crosses his arms. “They’re missing… that’s all we’ve got. As for the others-”

“Udo and Zofia didn’t make it,” interjects then Porco, not wanting Pieck to go through saying those things again: Braun doesn’t look back at him, though, he just hangs his head, slowly, covering his face with his free hand, bottle still untouched as he puts it down between his knees. “They’re still looking for people under the rubble, Commander Magath got his head fucked up, the bastards escaped. That’s all we know.”

Then, Pieck stands up: she wobbles a bit but still manages to sit down on Braun’s bed, at his side, circling his shoulders with her arm as she holds him close, both of them facing away from Porco. He can hear him sniffle, just slightly, and Pieck’s shoulder moves: she’s probably stroking his arm.

Porco averts his eyes, heart shrinking.

“They keep doing that,” sighs Pieck, her voice wavering, “leaving us behind. It's hard not to feel lonely.”

“Yeah,” grunts Braun, his voice surprisingly steady.

It’s true. All their lives they’ve been losing people left and right: it never stopped, and it won’t stop now, when some of them are so close to the end of their term- Porco swats the thought away, biting his lip.

He feels more and more like a piece of furniture, just sitting there as Pieck tries to console Braun, though it’s completely useless, but she does it anyway: who would, in her place? Who takes care of Braun now that Gabi and Falco are missing? Now that Udo and Zofia won’t be able to be there for him anymore?

After he lost Bertolt, and Annie, maybe Zeke… and before anyone else, Marcel. They both lost him.

“I’m going to tell the nurses that you woke up,” mumbles Pieck as she pats Braun’s shoulder gently before getting up, her eyes bloodshot, a faint grimace on her lips. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Then she walks away, and Porco’s heart starts trying to crawl up his throat.

“You’re not drinking,” he observes, “give it back, then. It’s not like you need it.”

Braun nods, handing him the bottle without even turning to look at him. He’s dropped his other hand in his lap, and he’s just staring down at it, tears gathered between his thick eyelashes, now darker. Porco stands up and grabs the bottle, Braun not even glancing at him as their fingers brush, yet again.

It takes a while, but Porco realizes that he’s still standing there, unmoving. He can’t tear his gaze away from the broken man in front of him who is crying quietly to himself, not even bothering with wiping the tears off his face or anything: his shoulders are hunched forward, back bent, his usual perfect posture nowhere in sight.

Porco opens his mouth, but closes it immediately after: he feels like he wants to say something, anything, to relieve Braun even for just a little bit, though nothing comes to mind. He’s been waiting for this, for Braun’s defences to collapse, showing just how much guilt he carries with him- but now that he’s seen a glimpse of it, Porco wishes he could make it all disappear.

His knees pop when he steps forward, body still not used to moving around this much after an extensive healing process, and before he can second guess himself he plops down on the bed, side by side with Braun, their shoulders brushing as they face in opposite directions.

Braun sucks in a harsh breath, but stays still, and Porco doesn’t dare to look at him. He’s still got the bottle in hand, toys with it, wishing he could do something else, something meaningful.

“I’m not good at this,” he starts, almost mumbling, tentative, “but I’m here if you want to let it out.”

No answer, at first- then, a broken, high-pitched wail leaves Braun's mouth, and he doubles down, forward, he probably covers his face with his hands because Porco can hear clearly the slap of his hands on his face, the ragged breathing coming out of his mouth, then he starts sniffling, and it’s too much.

“Want me to call Pieck?” offers Porco, and now he’s mumbling, for real, he hopes it’s loud enough that Braun can catch what he says, and he also hopes he won’t start sobbing louder, because the way he’s holding everything in not to make a scene is, frankly, irritating. Porco wants to get out of there, fast- he’s not supposed to show it, is he? Braun is strong. He protects everyone, the least he can do is get himself together.

“No,” he sobs then, broken, his voice bubbly with tears, exhaustion, perhaps disbelief. Only then, it hits- no one’s going to come pick him up when he gets released. And what if something happened to his mum, too? Who does he have?

What if Mum and Dad are both missing, or worse, injured, or...

What if they're both alone, now? Who can they turn to?

Porco grits his teeth, tearing his right hand away from the bottle, reaches around Braun’s front to clasp his shoulder, grabbing it tightly to the point he hopes it’ll bruise: they’re pressed flush against each other’s side, now, and it only takes a split second for Braun to outright melt into Porco’s awkward-sort-of-embrace. Now he’s sobbing, again, but it’s more regular, and subdued, a silent, rhythmic bobbing of his whole body, the smell of unwashed hair assaulting Porco’s nose, the shirt on his shoulder all wet and slobbery thanks to Braun, but… he finds he doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would.

“Told you I’m not good at this,” he grumbles then, when Braun’s quiet sobbing appears to be waning. Before he can add anything else, Braun’s left hand jolts up and grabs Porco’s wrist, stroking down his forearm, then back up again, holding on his fingers for dear life.

Porco’s heart does skip a beat, at that, and his hand releases its grip on Braun’s shoulder. It happens naturally- they let them fall down, gently, on Braun’s thigh, fingers sliding against each other as they intertwine, thumbs brushing the other's skin, heartbeats picking up, going at the same pace.

_There you are_ , thinks Porco, as Braun looks up at him: the armor’s broken, the man behind it nothing more than a scared and lonely little boy.

There he is, the short, rectangle-shaped kid who thought it would be a good idea to roll an apple on the table in Porco’s direction, offering it to him so he could eat properly, his big eyes looking around, his little body shifting from side to side with all the energy of a restless child. His little stubby hands, his short fingers, the harsh ever-present pink on his cheeks, his shrill voice when he spoke, knees always drawn together when sitting.

He’s always reached out for him, turning away at one point, just like Porco wanted- and now he needs him to turn back, to show himself again, to face his guilt, do something, anything. He needs him.

He's always been there, Reiner- Porco just never wanted to look for him.

His cheek finds the top of Reiner’s head, and he presses it down on his hair, not minding its state or smell at all. The grip on his fingers is strong, no intention of letting go whatsoever, the silence between them so loud it’s deafening- there’s so many things in there, there’s Udo and Zofia’s deaths, Gabi and Falco and Zeke missing, their home destroyed, countless dead people, the unrelenting ticking clock ready to strike thirteen at the end of their borrowed time, there’s Bertolt and Annie, there’s that girl, Ymir, and there’s Marcel, too.

Their whole lives fit naturally in the nonexistent space between their bodies, as they fall into each other.


	14. 14 - and through the window in the wall come streaming in on sunlight wings a million bright ambassadors of morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my eyes are bleeding. take this monster. take it
> 
> jokes aside, i'd like to thank each and every single one of you for all the support and love <3 whether you leave kudos or comments or bookmark or subscribe or simply read it and enjoy it by yourself, it all means so much to me. i can't even begin to describe how happy i am, especially now that gallirei is slowly spreading everywhere and more people are appreciating this super wonderful ship. thank you so much everyone, i mean it.
> 
> hope you enjoy <3

Ymir looked up at Reiner, standing with his arms crossed, back to the wall, gaze unreadable- to her, at least.

"Don't get your hopes up," she scoffed, twirling the pencil with deft fingers, "it's just a love letter."

Reiner shrugged. "Don't worry, I won't read it."

"Then why are you here? Doesn't Bertolt need a hand up on the roof? They could get to us if given enough time. We're not that close to the seashore."

"He's more than enough for keeping watch," he sighed, lifting his chin before adding, "go on then, no one's stopping you or anything, you know."

Ymir laughed, then, loud and obnoxious, much to Reiner's distaste. "It's been a while since I heard that accent! I always though you had kind of a lisp before, but now it's pretty clear you were just shit at faking it."

After rolling his eyes, Reiner scoffed again, though a slight smirk remained on his lips. "Makes sense. I'm shit at many things, after all."

"Whatever you say, second top graded soldier. At least you're not shit at helping people."

Porco wishes that Ymir would've looked back up at him, then- but she was entirely too taken with the words she started to write down on torn, old, grainy paper. _My dear Historia..._

He jolts awake with the texture of broken crystal on his tongue, the Attack Titan's gaping maw spread unnaturally open below him- then it's flesh, it's blood, it's Marcel's screaming cut short by Ymir's Titan and the blunt ridges of her teeth tearing at the skin of his neck.

Porco sobs, just once, wide-eyed, bottom lip quivering, his whole body frozen in bed. The sun's barely up, the hospital room still bathed in darkness for the most part.

There's a vague, constant lament that reaches his ears from somewhere to his left. As soon as his eyes get used to the darkness, he gets up into a sitting position so he can make out Reiner's silhouette as he thrashes in bed, soft, broken wailing coming out of his lips.

Porco toys with the idea of waking up Pieck to ask her for help- he can't deal with this now, not with how hard he's shivering. He's got his own nightmares to deal with, his own guilt, and there's plenty of it left to work through.

Reiner's sobbing doesn't seem to stop, on the contrary, it picks up and it scares the hell out of Porco, goosebumps summoned all over his body, and he shivers even harder; before he can even start to think straight, he stands up.

His teeth start chattering as he walks past Pieck's bed, and he tries with all he's got to avoid thinking of the Warhammer, or Marcel- no time for any of that now, none at all. As soon as his hand brushes against Reiner's shoulder, he sucks in a huge breath- then his eyes shoot open, and now Porco gasps, his hand retreating immediately as if Reiner's skin caught on fire for whatever reason.

"Hey," he breathes, heartbeat picking up in speed as Reiner blinks up at him, chest heaving at an alarmingly fast rate.

Before trying to say something, Reiner swallows loudly in the silence of the room, Porco's gaze caught by the bobbing motion of his throat. "Sorry," he croaks, "didn't want to wake you up."

Porco shakes his head before remembering that he probably can't see it in the dark: so he grunts, "you didn't," a thick bubble of tears threatening to burst deep in his throat. Just what is happening to him? He has to steel himself before his lips quiver any harder. He doesn't want Reiner to see him in this state.

"Was I loud?" he rasps, running a hand all over his face as he tries to slow down his heavy breathing. Well, he wasn't, but maybe Porco just stopped him before things got too messy.

"No," he answers, hand still tingling after having touched Reiner's bare shoulder even if for a split second. Porco finds himself trying to make some sort of contact with him, again, said hand shifting forward, fingers crawling on the mattress as if they were actually walking towards him- trying to find comfort, even if the man currently laying in bed is so much weaker than him. "Are you... I mean, was it bad?"

Before Reiner can answer, Porco's fingers find his skin: he hums, a mixture of surprise and something Porco can't quite decipher. Soon, Porco's hand is cupping the defined curve of his shoulder, his skin warm to the touch, pleasantly so.

His teeth stop chattering.

"It's been worse," he answers then, deep in his throat. "But thanks."

He's not afraid or ashamed to show the worst of him to Porco, that much is clear.

Porco shrugs, his hand starting to sweat. Both hands, in fact.

It's a different hue, now, that bathes the room in almost-darkness: it's got a bluish tint to it, somehow brighter than just a few seconds before, and Reiner's skin glows with sweat. There's a few strands of hair hanging down in front of Porco's eyes, and he can't seem to move them back on his head, frozen in place right where he stands.

Reiner does that for him: he reaches up with his other arm, as if he wanted to keep Porco's hand on his shoulder for as long as possible. He brushes ever so slightly against Porco's forehead as he moves said hair back on his head, lingering there, right above his nape, where it's shorter, fuzzier, darker. He's cupping the back of his head.

It's hard, but Porco tries to keep his eyes open: Reiner's touch, the gentle pressure there, where practically no one's ever touched him, is breathtaking. He knows that the pads of his fingers are pressing down on Reiner's shoulder now, hard, as if he wanted to grab it, hold onto it for dear life, and he can't believe he's allowing all this to happen, right at the crack of dawn in a room full of convalescent people, Pieck sleeping right beside them.

"Thank you," breathes Reiner, taking his hand away, gently, and Porco feels like his heart just got squeezed hard right between his lungs.

"Yeah," he nods, and he moves away from him as well, a shiver running down his spine. He feels cold now, and sleepy. He wants to go back to bed, so that's what he does.

Porco keeps feeling cold all over even as he curls up on his side, holding the sheets tightly around him. It takes a while before he falls asleep again, and he can feel the beginnings of a strong headache planting their roots smack in the middle of his skull.

The three of them get released late in the morning: they're given leftover coats and are escorted to what's left of the gate of the internment zone. No one's waiting for them, the few people they spot doing their best to dig through the rubble to find whatever it is they're looking for, be it belongings or their loved ones' remains.

They split up in complete silence, Porco not bothered by it, since they're all eager to see their parents once again: it feels like an actual dream when he walks up to his house, still intact thankfully, what with it being far away from the plaza and all. He barely knocks before Mum opens the door and grabs him by the shoulders, hugging him so tightly he can't breathe properly.

No words are exchanged: Dad is sleeping on his favourite chair, head hanging forwards, arms crossed over his chest. They were probably waiting for him to be discharged so that they could come pick him up from the hospital, or at least at the front gate, whatever it is they're allowed to do this time. Mum helps him to the bathroom, lingering there as Porco discards the coat and eyes the clean change of clothes left in there, waiting for him: all this is too familiar, uncanny even, and he tries to smile at her for what it's worth- but he grimaces, and she grimaces back, eyes full of tears.

He can't bear to see her like that, so he closes the door, locks it, even.

Commander Magath- well, General Magath as it turns out, what with the bulk of the military having been wiped out during the assault and all, issues a briefing on the very next day, waiting for them at the back entrance of the building, together with Colt. The walk to the briefing room might be longer, but that way they won't have to walk past Zeke's door- Porco is not sure that Pieck could take it, not now, imagining what the General and Colt are going to tell them in a matter of minutes.

They all sit down at the table, four chairs, two at each side: the General ignores the one that Colt saved for him specifically, standing right in front of it- Porco can't help but think that said chair would have been Zeke’s, in other circumstances, and he's pretty sure he's not the only one who thought so.

“Right,” sighs the General, “first of all, my head is doing fine. So don’t bother with useless questions of the sort.”

Normally, Porco would scoff, Pieck shake her shoulders in silent laughter, and Colt would be throwing questioning glances at Zeke to gauge the appropriateness of his reaction: now, nothing like that happens. No one even dares to react. What's the point?

“So, I'm glad to hear that your immediate families are safe and sound, mostly," he starts, reading from a written report handed to him by Colt. Pieck crumples up on herself, Porco grimacing, knowing full well that her father's health problems have only worsened after the attack, slight injuries coupled with chronical pains and worsening symptoms- nothing to scoff at.

Reiner runs a hand over his face, then- his mum is confined in bed for the week, he'd heard, coughing costantly thanks to all the dust she'd breathed in during the attack. Seems like the only ones who truly are safe and sound are Porco's parents, after all.

The General spots both reactions immediately, and sighs, flipping through the pages of the extensive report in his hands with a grimace. "Let's change subject, shall we... as we all know, Gabi Braun and Falco Grice are missing," he reads, both Reiner and Colt drawing their brows together in distress at those words, "and we got multiple reports of people seeing them board the enemy airship, of all things."

Colt hangs his head at the General's words, though he probably knew about it already. Porco, who is sitting right beside him, opens his mouth to say something, but Pieck is faster: she catches his attention as she puts a hand on Reiner’s shoulder, trying to comfort him, but he just stares out into nothingness, and eventually crosses his arms on his chest with slow, tired movements.

Seeing this makes Porco’s blood boil. He would’ve reacted differently to his touch- like yesterday morning. The difference would've mattered to him, he knows.

“A retrieval mission is in order, as you might have gathered. Now, the army- or what's left of it- took its sweet time scouring the battlefield, and managed to dig up enemy equipment, among other less pleasant things. Namely, the Titans that fought, and what they left behind.”

The General raises his head, again, to glare at Reiner: he doesn’t notice, still staring down at the table, as Pieck’s hand keeps stroking his shoulder, much to Porco’s irritation.

“Surprisingly enough, the majority of the retrieved Titan parts belongs to the Beast.”

At General Magath’s subsequent words, all four of them perk up: their heads snap towards the General, even Colt’s, who didn’t know about this judging by his widened eyes. “The Beast?”

The General nods. “After investigating its remains we found quite the variety of exploded body parts, all belonging to Zeke.”

No reaction as they all wait with bated breath.

“But… there’s not enough. All we could find were limbs. He only pretended to die in order to deceive us… we believe that Zeke has allied with enemy forces on Paradis and escaped on their airship.”

What really gets Porco’s attention are the words that follow- because, really, there’s no proof this is all real, isn’t it? It’s just conjectures, a report written to pass the time, to justify the unexplainable to the higher-ups… higher-ups that are probably dead as they speak.

“If Pieck’s theory is correct,” resumes the General, and Porco's blood runs cold in his veins, “Zeke had been planning this raid on Marley for over four years. He was putting together a team of co-conspirators while inside the Marleyan military.”

So she knew all along? Or rather, she suspected it- and never told him anything? Porco exhales, shakily, as he turns to look at Pieck, her expression unreadable. Though she did lift her hand off Reiner’s shoulder.

He’ll have to process this later. There’s no way he can focus on the General's words, otherwise.

“This modified maneuvering equipment uses Marleyan technology,” he continues then, pointing at the gears scattered on the table with a tilt of his chin, “and the airship they stole for their escape required military training to pilot at that high a degree of proficiency- he must have snuck his comrades onto the survey ship to Paradis four years ago… we're dealing with Eldian restorationists here.”

Porco can’t take it anymore: he runs a hand through his hair, feeling dizzy all of a sudden.

He remembers Zeke when they were still candidates, the lanky, tall boy who always knew everything before anyone else, who guided them through the trickiest parts of their training; the young man who used to hand them bottles of wine in secret, on their first shared missions- and it was unnerving, the way he would always lose his lighter, his stupid habit of blowing on his coffee for literal years before sipping it, the countless times he’d repaired his glasses… and the way Pieck always seemed to want to be around him, how she looked up to him, even. How she fancied him.

Porco feels like throwing up.

“Fuck,” he snorts, not entertained in the slightest, “we've been through so many things together and this is what we get in return..."

“Of course, we’re not going to let this end here,” says then the General, putting the reports down and taking a careful look at each one of them before continuing. “After the attack on Marley, the dignitaries and newspaper reporters from around the world went on to speak of the threat posed by Paradis: all major nations came together in the blink of an eye to form a massive military alliance… just like Willy Tybur asked the world to do, on the night of the attack.”

Porco finds he couldn’t care less about the rest of the world suddenly waking up just because their arses are sore now, too, but he'll listen anyway.

“We’re not just going to wait until Zeke’s term is up: a global military alliance will conduct a scorched-earth campaign against Paradis within the next six months.”

It’s obvious that the others are having none of it, too, especially Colt, who springs up from his chair, chain of command be damned, to actually exclaim at the General’s face, “six months!? Is that how long we’ll wait to rescue Falco and Gabi, too?”

Surprisingly enough, General Magath isn’t bothered in the slightest by Colt’s behaviour: he lets him finish, then speaks out, perfectly calm. “We must wait for the allied forces to gather. If Marley attacks Paradis on its own, we’re only going to be fought off the way we were before.”

Colt is about to retort, but then, of all people, Reiner speaks up in a monotone voice, his fist resting on the table as he looks up at the General, clear determination in his eyes- something Porco’s rarely seen. “Zeke must be thinking the same thing: that the Marleyan army won’t move to attack immediately after taking such a massive blow, and he’s not the kind of person who’s just going to wait around with no plan until he gets killed six months later.”

General Magath’s eyes widen at Reiner’s words. Porco saw a similar scene, once: they were little, just candidates, during one of the first history lessons organized by the General himself. Reiner asked a question, much to the other kids’ entertainment, and all he earned in answer was that same look. He'd never understood General Magath's reaction, but he can explain it to himself in a way- it’s the same look that shows up on Mum's face when Porco does something good according to her standards, and she has to admit that her remaining son is not a failure.

“…so you think Zeke is plotting something right now?” asks the General, for confirmation, and Reiner doesn’t miss a beat, growing increasingly animated, angry, alive. Porco’s eyes widen in wonder at that, at finally seeing a reaction from him, how he gets back up to fight despite everything.

“Yes, he must have a plan in mind and, if we want to snuff said plan out, we can’t wait for the global alliance to be ready- we need to launch a surprise attack on Paradis,” he declares, banging his fist on the table, once, not so strong as to startle people, but not so light as to go unnoticed either.

Porco can see Pieck’s shoulders fall, slightly, and hears Colt’s breath hitch in his throat. In all this, General Magath keeps staring down at him, genuinely interested, a peculiar light in the grey of his eyes.

“So you want another shot at it.”

Reiner spots the provocation a mile before it’s spoken, and he allows a small sneer to show on his face as he shoots back, “I want to carry out my duty. That’s all.”

General Magath snorts. “That’s all? Save that tone for when you’ll be General, Braun. I’d rather hear your strategy for getting to the island undetected, now.”

As if Reiner planned everything in advance, he straightens his back at the General's words, fist still clenched on the table. “An undercover mission would be ideal. That way we can sneak in and assess the situation, thankfully blending in their military organization is rather easy, especially the corps with the highest number of soldiers.”

No interruption from General Magath, who crosses his arms and listens, nodding once to signal that he can go on. “The north of the island is still our best bet. Of course whoever sneaks in needs to be proficient enough to hold their own and get to the inner walls undetected... that’s why I think I should go.”

Porco’s heart skips a beat at Reiner’s words, and he’s about to sneer and spit that no, he can’t go on that island again, not after what happened- but the General precedes him.

“That’s absolutely out of the question. We’re not sending our War Chief on a stealth mission in enemy territory,” he declares, the rank title spoken with amusement, “we need you to convince the remaining military to go on with this plan. Plus, they’d spot you in a heartbeat and we don’t want that.”

Reiner is visibly taken aback by his sudden promotion: he regains his composure quickly, though, lips sealed together in a thin, straight line. “I don’t want to burden anyone else with this… it’s my duty to-”

“Duty this, duty that,” snorts now Porco, who’s had more than enough, and finally Reiner turns to look at him, eyes wide, lips parted, and that’s exactly what Porco wanted: reactions, actual living feelings showing up on his stupid face. “You’re our superior, you can order us around, you know.”

“I’m going,” says Pieck then, expression unreadable, “I’ve been to the island already, anyway. I know how to get around.”

General Magath nods, then turns his head towards Porco. “You’ll go with her,” he confirms, Porco swallowing at those words, “that way you'll get a better shot at confirming the location of the Founder. Now, before making any other plans, I believe a meeting with the remaining high-ranks is in order…”

Colt rises unprompted to help the General walk around the table, his injury clearly still affecting him. “Come with me,” he says then to Reiner, who rises as well and follows them out of the room, in silence.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Porco sets both arms on the table, facing Pieck directly: she refuses to meet his gaze, staring down at nothing in particular.

“So you knew?” he murmurs, leaning forward as if she could hear better that way. “Scratch that- you suspected that he was actually betraying us?”

Pieck clicks her tongue before answering, a meek, guilty voice that doesn’t suit her at all. “I had a hunch.”

“A hunch.”

“Yes, that’s what it was, Porco,” she retorts, still not meeting his gaze, “and I decided to tell the General in private, just in case. Now it turns out to be true. I can’t say I’m happy to be right about this one.”

“You never told me-”

“Are you one of my superiors? I told General Magath and mentioned it to Reiner once. I had no reason to tell you about any of this.”

Porco leans back, now averting his eyes, too. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she sighs, leaning back in her chair, hugging herself. “I’m not feeling very well, that’s it.”

Clearing his throat, Porco offers an awkward hum in answer. He really doesn’t know how to behave with these things- with most things, in general. No matter what happens, he’s always going to feel like he’s constantly one step behind everyone.

“It’s uncanny, you know,” she murmurs then, now looking up, staring a hole right through Porco’s head, “how you’re waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop and, as soon as it does, nothing makes sense anymore.”

“Yeah?” he hesitates.

Pieck nods, still staring, insistently. “Sound familiar?”

Of course it does. Now Porco leans back in his chair as well, his head pounding with no sign of stopping. Of fucking course it sounds familiar, though in his case it’s kinda different.

“You should do something while you’ve still got the time,” she offers then, her voice softer than before, though still guarded. “What you did back at the hospital was a nice start, but time is not a luxury we can afford I’m afraid.”

So, she knows this, too. Porco shakes his head. “There’s a war going on, Pieck, for fuck’s sake… I don’t have time for that-”

“Then jump right into it, it’s what you do,” she shoots back, leaning forward again. “You never think, you just act, you do it all the time, so why can’t you do it when it actually matters?”

He feels lost- he wonders when Reiner will be back from the meeting.

“I can’t do it,” he blurts out, “he’s… he got my brother killed.”

“But you can’t fight it, can you?” insists Pieck, growing bolder as she adds, “he’s done horrible things, it's not the right moment, there's more important stuff to deal with. But none of this matters anyway."

Porco agrees- he absolutely can’t fight it. He curls up on himself, drawing his knees together. He’s pathetic.

"I don't know," is all he can say out loud, crossing his arms over his chest, breath catching in his throat. He doesn't know anything anymore, at this point.

“Then don’t expect me to give you any explanation about Zeke.”

There it is, the confirmation. Porco closes his eyes, feeling sick to his stomach. He wanted to confront her about conflicting feelings and how they've gotten in the way- in everyone's way, no less, but all he got in return was Pieck making him feel like shit for how he thinks and acts and breathes, pretty much.

Pieck sighs, and it’s long and drawn out: then she stands up, putting the chair back in its place. “Let’s go now, I believe they’re finished.”

Porco composes himself, then nods, a loud sniff before he complies standing up, a weak “fine” leaving his lips just barely.

Before going back home, Porco stops right outside headquarters, patting the pockets of his jacket before remembering that he’s got no cigarettes left, or a lighter for that matter. He hasn’t smoked in days, and the ever-present urge is starting to dissipate slowly, though right now he could really use a drag or two.

He spots General Magath off to the side of the building then, leaning against the wall, and though he doesn’t appear to be smoking Porco walks up to him anyway: even if he’s still recovering and probably forbidden from lighting up one, Porco trusts him to carry a packet around at all times.

Clearly, the General spots his line of thought as soon as he sees him, and it’s with a half smirk that he clicks his tongue and destroys Porco’s hopes. “If it’s a cigarette you’re after, then you’ll be disappointed.”

Porco tries to mask his displeasure with a shrug, and he mirrors General Magath, leaning against the wall beside him. “Next time then, Commander.”

“General,” he scoffs, though his voice betrays some form of endearment that Porco still can’t quite process. “Aren’t you going home to your parents?”

Before answering, Porco considers his options, a quick flick of the tongue on chapped lips. “I need to clear my mind first. It’s a lot.”

“It is,” sighs General Magath, his head falling back against the wall. “It truly is.”

It prods at Porco’s mind for the minutes that follow, spent in complete silence, the General gazing up at the sky, Porco studying the tips of his boots, and it comes out, eventually- “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I should’ve been more careful on the battlefield.”

Crystal splitting between his teeth, yet again, a distant, lingering memory that makes him physically curl up on himself.

"It's my fault that they got the Warhammer," he lets out then, nothing more than a whisper. "And they almost got me... I put everyone else in danger."

“They were organized, that’s it,” interrupts the General, speaking much slower than usual, his eyes wide as they stare off into the distance. “It’s not your fault specifically.”

Porco tries his best not to feel small and useless, a simple cadet being scolded, maybe even beaten: but now he looks to the side, he looks at the General who is tall just like him, and he doesn’t see the nervous, constantly swearing, violent and racist Commander he once saw, big and imposing, barking like a dog. No, he doesn’t really see that anymore, does he? There’s just a tired man with a bandage on his head, the wrinkles around his eyes more prominent, the curve of his back more accentuated when he’s not standing to attention. He rarely swears, too.

It’s like seeing his own dad grow old, right in front of his eyes. A dad who, after being shown the worst weaknesses of his son, carries them anyway because he wants to share the burden not out of obligation, but for something entirely different that maybe Dad- the real one, though is he?- doesn't even know of.

General Magath sighs, breaking off Porco’s train of thoughts, and he glances back at him, his head shifting to the side. “Something else on your mind? You’re still here.”

It’s not true, even if Porco shakes his head and blurts out, “no,” there’s a lot of things he wants to say: but he should save them for another time, perhaps. Maybe when they’ll come back from the island.

 _If_ they’ll come back, that is.

“…actually, yeah,” he corrects himself, the heel of his boot tapping on the ground, fast, knee bobbing, “he saved me, right? Pieck told me.”

Before answering, General Magath allows himself to smirk fully at those words, and he even raises his eyebrows. Porco isn’t quite sure why. “Braun, you mean,” he drawls, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Porco’s cheeks feel warmer than comfort, just like that. He looks away. “Yeah.”

“People aren’t exaggerating when they call him Marley’s shield,” considers the General, his voice suddenly much more serious, “and that would explain why they chose to remove him from the battlefield as soon as possible. Chip at the enemy’s defense and you’ll win easily, and all that.”

He can almost see Falco running up to Reiner, on that night, a big grin on his face as he asks him to follow, that there’s something- or someone- he needs to see, and Zeke glancing at his watch, confirming that yes, they can still make it no problem.

It all falls into place.

“Back when he returned from Paradis we talked at length about his fate, you probably know this already, but indulge me. I remember General Calvi specifically calling him a ‘persistent Eldian cockroach’ of all things, always getting blown up in battle, immediately standing back up a few seconds after, like it was nothing. A cockroach, then a precious asset, and eventually Marley’s shield.”

Porco bites down on his lip, though the General isn’t finished yet as he adds, a low chuckle thrown in for good measure, “to me he’s always been an averagely skilled, strong-willed little boy. Then, a complete failure. And now I couldn’t be more grateful to him. Funny how things can change.”

“Yeah,” nods Porco, though he doesn’t find it funny at all. It hits too close to home, and he almost regrets even asking him in the first place.

“I think I failed with all of you,” confesses then General Magath, and it startles Porco, it shakes something in him, because when his heads darts to the side he sees a grimace blooming on the General’s face, and it’s awkward, his voice breaking, and he doesn’t want this- it’s just like when he saw Mum and Dad break down, back when they got the news about Marcel all those years ago.

“Failed?” he asks, though, his voice small, afraid.

“I failed with Zeke, for starters. Then with all of them… only Reiner came back,” he sighs, Reiner’s name sounding wrong in his voice, like he isn’t used to saying it, and Porco can relate for all the wrong reasons- “and I wanted to help you, but it all amounted to nothing. And I failed with Colt, and these little ones, too. They’re all gone, one way or the other.”

Porco’s stomach shrinks, and he’s speechless. If it were anyone else in his place then maybe the General could’ve gotten some support, but he’s stuck with useless little Porco, who needed his hair ruffled and was the dead last of their group and just yesterday got almost teary-eyed when holding hands with a man he’s supposed to hate.

“I can manage, though,” nods then General Magath, more to himself than to Porco, “we’ve still got a mission. Regrets can wait after that.”

“Right,” he blurts out, trying to balance the awkwardness of this whole exchange. “I don’t know what to say, I-”

“Don’t, don’t do that,” scoffs the General, standing upright and stroking his head, grimacing as his hand comes into contact with the bandage, “I just needed someone who would listen. It happened to be you.”

The fact that it happened to be an Eldian goes unspoken, but Porco hears it anyway, and he averts his eyes. “Yeah,” he grumbles, tired, used to it.

“Go back home, now,” barks then General Magath, lifting his chin and wearing his usual frown that Porco knows well, “before your parents get too worried. Off with you.”

There’s a ghost of a smirk pulling up a corner of the General’s mouth, but Porco wills himself to ignore it as he nods, and chuckles, though it’s dry and soulless and it weighs him down as he walks back towards the internment zone, his stomach shrinking even further now, for reasons he still has to process.

Dad's workshop is pretty much destroyed, being so close to the plaza and all, but there's still many useful tools they can retrieve: he insists that they probably survived the attack, so Porco indulges him, and that's how he finds himself digging through rubble and concrete, jacket discarded, to find whatever he can.

Mum tagged along, helping Dad with his bad leg- it got even worse after the attack, with all the unconsiderate running and such. Now they're directing him on where to dig, occasionally handing him a water bottle and even a sandwich that Porco promptly refused, and it's nice. It keeps the mind occupied.

He can almost ignore the constant, phantom memory of shredded crystal if he puts himself into it. Almost.

It seems to be a very common tactic, though: many people, civilians and healthy soldiers alike, are doing their best to help whoever needs it, wading through destroyed buildings of all sizes, still recovering body parts even days after the attack. So it has to work for him, too.

"Good morning," greets then a voice that Porco knows very well- it's Colt, speaking in a more hushed tone than usual, though marked by fatigue. Porco turns around to acknowledge him then, and he sees him giving Mum and Dad a tight-lipped smile, despite everything. He doesn't even know how he manages to be polite when his younger brother has been kidnapped and taken on that damn island.

Mum and Dad answer in kind, though they seem to light up when- Porco swallows- Reiner walks up to them as well, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, forearms covered in dirt and sweat.

They greet him back with perhaps more enthusiasm than necessary, though he knows it's born out of respect and gratitude.

He did save Porco.

"You're helping as well? Wouldn't it be better for you to rest again, Vice Captain?" asks Dad, in a tone so meek and uncharacteristic that has Porco stop whatever he's doing, for real this time: he's never heard him speak like that before, not even when General Magath called him names all those years ago.

"I can rest later," answers Reiner, always polite, reassuring, even- Porco doesn't miss Colt's vacant half-smile at those words, and how he averts his eyes. "There's so much to be done here, we better get an early start."

"Then get your arse here and do something," calls out Porco, lifting his chin as he speaks: Reiner's eyes widen, and he turns towards him, warmth catching on Porco's cheeks as they gazes meet. "I can't move this on my own."

"Porco," gasps Mum, "you're not supposed to talk like that to your superior-"

"It's fine, Miss Galliard," chuckles Reiner, and it sounds a bit less emptier than it usually would, Porco doesn't miss it, "I'll allow it."

"You'll allow it," sneers Porco as both Reiner and Colt step forward to grab their tools, "look at yourself, acting so high and mighty. For what."

"I could report you," suggests Reiner then, arched eyebrows rising deliciously on his forehead, hooded eyes still guarded by thick lashes, "we even have a witness."

"Colt didn't hear anything," spits Porco, shoveling at an alarmingly fast pace, maybe putting too much strength into it- but then, this is a competition, isn't it? Reiner's made it pretty clear with his slight smirk and how he eyes Porco's arms occasionally. No way he can lose to someone like him.

"Actually, I did," offers Colt, a slight scoff on the tail end of his words, and Porco can spot Reiner's hidden smirk as he ducks his head- then as soon as it shifts back up, it's gone. "I'll report you to the General first thing in the morning."

Porco almost stops for a minute- he notices how much energy both Reiner and Colt are putting into it, and he wonders, distantly, if his words had some sort of effect on them. He's always thought of himself as pretty decent at getting a rise out of people, and perhaps this is what happened. They do need a good push, after all.

And it's not just them: Gabi and Falco are sorely missed by everyone around.

"We're going to get them back," murmurs Porco then, more to himself than Reiner and Colt- though they do notice, because they hang around to help until late in the afternoon, when the sun starts going down and both Mum and Dad are back, begging them to stop, to at least go back home to eat and rest or they'll catch something.

It grows into some sort of a habit, in the following days: when Dad's workshop doesn't need anymore digging, all his precious tools recovered, they offer to help the nearby shop, then it's an old house down the road, the tailor at the corner, this super-nice old woman who would love to get her late husband's picture back...

The fact that General Magath hasn't issued a briefing yet helps: that way they can focus on helping their people, seeing how most of Marley's actual resources are going to the military, as always, because really, who would bother with rebuilding stuff in the internment zone? It's a waste of money to them, no surprises there.

Porco realizes he hasn't seen Pieck in days. He mentions it to Colt later in the afternoon, but he just shrugs, stuttering something about strategical meetings and the establishment of a new panzer unit. As soon as he gets to be alone with Reiner he's going to ask him everything about what they're planning, because it's clear that stuff is going on while they're out here playing builders.

Thankfully, Colt doesn't show up the morning after: Reiner shrugs Porco's question off easily, explaining that General Magath summoned him to go over his reports, whatever they might be about.

"They're up to something, aren't they," prods Porco as he sheds his jacket, bunching it up unceremoniously and leaving it on a bench, all under Reiner's insistently attentive gaze. "No way we're just enjoying some peaceful days off."

"All I know is that various ships left for Paradis last night," he reveals, his eyes still focused, "sounds like an undercover mission."

Porco crosses his arms on his chest, elbows jutting out, and he bites the tip of his tongue when he notices Reiner's gaze following his motions. "Getting ready to sneak us in? Nice. Wonder when they're going to actually tell us."

"Guess we'll know in a matter of days," sighs Reiner then, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up, and now it's Porco who has to look away before he gets caught staring. Just like that, they go back to work without saying another word, their glances doing the talking.

Fatigue looks good on Reiner: his skin gained back some colour these past days, his cheekbones a dark pink that suits his features, sweat pooling in the hollow of his visible collarbones and plastering the fabric of his shirt to his chest. Now it's a good time to look away, and Porco does just that, stretching and walking back to the bench when he can't take it anymore, followed by an equally fatigued Reiner.

They pause for a few minutes: Porco sits down with a grunt, mirrored by Reiner. Before he can drink even a single drop of water he lets his gaze follow Porco’s arm as he brings his own bottle to his lips, moving his head back so it slides immediately down his parched throat.

When he’s done drinking, Reiner is still looking, eyes half-lidded. Porco snorts, lifting his chin just slightly to catch his eye. “Aren’t you drinking? What are you, a camel?”

Reiner chuckles weakly at that, shaking his head. “No, I was just surprised. You look good."

That was unexpected. Porco blinks stupidly, running a hand through his sweaty hair, dissimulating his growing embarrassment with a forced scoff. “What's all this about?”

“I mean it. Have you been working out? You’re a lot bigger than I remember.”

‘A lot bigger’ is definitely an exaggeration: sure, Porco’s managed to put on some muscle through the years, but he wouldn’t call himself ‘big’, not when Reiner is right there, looking outright massive in comparison. Though, he later acknowledges that maybe Reiner still remembers him as the thin big-eyed boy from years before.

That warms his heart, somehow. He’s noticed his efforts: he tries to bite back more sarcasm, willing himself to accept the compliment, though he finds he truly can’t without the awkwardness that comes with it. “Glad someone noticed,” he settles for, then, earning a quiet hum from Reiner after he finally drinks from his bottle.

“Thank you for helping,” he murmurs then, his low voice slithering all along Porco’s spine. “Muscles are needed here, and there’s only so many soldiers we can rely on after what happened.”

“I’ll say this: if we used our Titans we'd be done already,” observes Porco, though he can read the answer on Reiner’s face even before he says it out loud.

“I think these people are better off without seeing Titans for a while.”

As expected of him, ever the sensible, considerate one. “Yeah, I know. Better work our arses off for good, then.”

“We better,” agrees Reiner, putting his bottle down on the bench and standing up, the height difference between him and Porco suddenly not as irritating as it was before: Porco’s line of sight brings his gaze to the expanse of his neck and his defined collarbones, and he stares at the exposed skin perhaps a bit too much, water bottle still in hand, before Reiner gets his attention and he tears his gaze away.

“Don’t get distracted,” jokes Reiner then, a barely-there hint of a smirk pulling at his lips- and Porco finds a similar one on his own face, too, stomach slowly catching fire as he registers the provocation.

“You’re the one who should focus,” he retorts, bending just slightly to his side to put the bottle down and then immediately straightening his back, lifting his chin as if to challenge him. “You cocky arsehole.”

“Language,” scoffs Reiner, though his gaze lingers, and slides down past Porco’s chin, for a few seconds longer than ideal.

He just checked him out. He definitely did. There’s no mistaking it.

“Just grab that sodding shovel and do something,” sputters Porco, walking past him to get his own- and he doesn’t miss Reiner’s small, amused laugh at his visible frustration.

They work hard until sunset approaches: curfew is still in order, people leaving in small groups at a time, retreating in their own houses to give their daily lives some semblance of normalcy. Almost everyone draws the curtains together, so that they won’t try to look out the window and see a mostly destroyed Liberio first thing in the morning. Porco knows that his parents are going to do the same, and he wonders, distantly, what are Gabi’s parents going to do, and Falco’s, and Zeke’s grandparents as well, if their curtains will be drawn together, too.

He won’t ask Reiner about it, though. It's clear that he's not looking forward to going home, and find himself alone with his thoughts.

Porco swats away the phantom memory of shattered crystal digging into his gums, right then. It's become a habit by now.

"Fuck, you smell," he scoffs then, trying to clear his mind the way he knows best. Reiner merely shrugs at that, visibly lost in thought as he keeps working: Porco hates it when they get silent and tired in the last few hours of work, when all meaning of hanging out and do something with someone else is lost to fatigue and, dare Porco say it, trauma.

"I'll wash up when I get home," answers Reiner then, and Porco has to blink at his words first, having already forgotten his previous snide remark.

"Yeah, you do that," he hums, standing upright and rolling his stiff neck in all directions. "I'm beat. Are you staying here until morning?"

"No," he scoffs, dropping whatever he's doing and imitating Porco with all the stretching and rolling and stuff. Endearing. "I'll see you tomorrow."

“Yeah, about that,” starts Porco, folding his jacket in half, “when are they going to tell us? About the mission, I mean."

He feels uneasy when thinking about that. Knowing that Reiner won’t be with them worries him, somehow- as if he should try to make the most of their time before the mission. As if something could happen.

He swats the thought away with a grimace, and he feels stupid for spending most of his waking time shoveling debris around instead of trying to have a normal conversation with him.

“It depends,” answers Reiner, clicking his tongue as he scratches at the side of his neck, Porco following his hand as he does that, gaze slowly running across his exposed forearm. “The army is buying time with the excuse of gathering more resources, is what I heard. We'd just need a couple more zeppelins, naval fleets are next to useless, but you tell that to them.”

“Yeah, they love going out to sea. Very tourist-y of them,” scoffs Porco, finding similar amusement in Reiner’s half smirk, and here they are again- staring at each other, in silence, jacket and coat in hand to busy their hands with something.

Porco blurts it out before he can stop himself. “Oi, anyway- what were you doing before, checking me out and all that?”

He doesn’t miss the way Reiner’s eyebrows raise, slowly, his cheeks growing darker in the sunset. He wouldn’t miss that for the world, he finds. “I was just looking,” he explains in a practical voice, then getting back his confidence as he adds, “you’re nice to look at.”

“Nice?” scoffs Porco, trying to hide his embarrassment.

“Yeah.”

Heat unfolds right in the pit of his stomach, heartbeat picking up in speed. “Thanks,” he stutters, at a complete loss for words.

Reiner hangs his head, running a hand across the back of his neck, his elbow jutting out, then he lowers his arm, and bites on his lower lip as he averts his eyes, folds his coat again, half his shirt hanging out from his trousers- Porco wants nothing more than walk up to him and do something, anything, to relieve himself from the heat that starts pumping through his body.

“I guess you don’t smell that bad after all,” he blurts out eventually, feeling immensely stupid for not being able to speak his mind, properly.

If Reiner is wounded at him not reciprocating the compliment, then he’s talented at not showing it: the easy chuckle he allows out of his lips reverberates in Porco’s ears for a good while as they part ways, bidding each other goodnight.

It does take a while, but most of the work is done in a couple of days, also thanks to the younger soldiers dismissed from the hospital who come to help rebuild and secure what’s left of the main square.

“Thank you for all you’ve done,” murmurs an old woman that afternoon, holding Porco’s dirty hands between her calloused ones, tears tracing the deep lines on her cheeks. “We’re so grateful, thank you, warriors. Thank you.”

Porco manages to give her a hesitant smile- they did just dig up her granddaughter’s remains that morning. He supposes it’s still better than nothing, for her. “We’re doing everything we can,” he tells her, and her hands shake harder at Porco’s words: he helps her towards one of the nearby benches to the side of the road, holding most of her weight as she sits down, her breathing labored from the effort of it.

“Tell this to Karina’s son, as well,” she asks then, wiping her tears with a trembling hand, “that we’ll always be in debt. We would be dead without you all. Please do tell him.”

“I will, of course,” he nods, then, a small smile creeping up on his lips. It’s become second nature to him, not understanding his own body’s reactions whenever Reiner is mentioned.

He does just that: he walks back to the manhole they’re currently emptying, and prods at Reiner’s lower back with the tip of his boot as he turns around sharply, sitting back on his heels as he removes the grate to take a better look.

“How about a break?” he asks, lifting his chin. “I’m starved.”

“Sure,” grunts Reiner as he puts the grate back down, standing up and stretching his arms, the button-down shirt he’s wearing probably riding up on his stomach: from where he is, Porco can’t sneak a glance, but he doesn’t miss how the other soldier’s eyes widen at that, Reiner completely unaware of being checked out by several people around him.

Jealousy sparks at the base of Porco’s spine: he glares at those soldiers then, raising his eyebrows as if to question whatever it is they’re doing, and all of them are quick to go back to work. Now is not the time to appreciate the view- not that it matters to him, of course.

“Um. I brought sandwiches,” pipes up Porco, out of nowhere, awkwardness causing him to scratch at the tip of his nose for maybe too long. “Want one?”

Reiner is taken aback by that: he blinks before answering, from deep down his throat, “yeah, thank you.”

They sit side by side on a bench nearby, Reiner discarding his gloves, and just as Porco hands him one of the sandwiches he’s reminded of something. “So… that old woman from before. The one who kept shaking my hand?”

Reiner grabs the sandwich from Porco’s hand, muttering his thanks. “What about her?”

“She asked me- even, begged me, to tell you that they’ll always be in debt, and that they’d be dead without us, all that stuff. So I’m telling you.”

He’s still unwrapping the sandwich as he squints, then looks up towards said woman. “You mean Miss Weber?” he asks, pointing towards her with his chin.

Porco turns his head to look in that direction, then he nods. “Yeah. You know her?”

“Of course,” snorts Reiner, resting his elbows on his knees, sandwich still untouched, “she used to bring me cherries when I was a kid. Actual baskets, chock full of them.”

“Red ones or dark ones?” asks Porco, after taking a bite, smiling to himself as Reiner finally does, too, his cheeks rounder now that they’re stuffed with food. He’s very into it, clearly enjoying the sandwich, and Porco is glad that he does- he seems to have gotten back a bit of an accent, as well. He used to sound more neutral ever since he came back, or maybe they just never talked to each other enough before today.

“Mostly red. Dark ones were always bruised, mum used to eat those,” he scoffs, swallowing before speaking. He’s got good manners, notices Porco: he even holds his sandwich with the lower part of the wrapping, not to touch it with dirty hands, and turns away from Porco as he drinks from his bottle. He remembers him doing that even in Ymir’s memories, probably leftovers from his Paradis training.

“I never really liked cherries, you know- or fruit, for that matter. Not anymore, anyway. Got sick of it with all those sodding pears I used to eat when I was little.”

Now Reiner laughs, covering his mouth, still full: Porco finds himself staring at him, a vague smile on his own lips. He’s got long fingers. “What about apples,” he asks then, hanging his head as he unwraps the last of the sandwich and takes it whole in his mouth, chewing quietly.

Porco knows what he just implied. He shakes his head, though he’s still smiling. “I guess they're fine, sometimes.”

They’re sitting side by side, maybe too close for comfort, thanks to Porco’s habit of spreading his legs wider than ideal. Reiner crumples up the wrapping in a neat little ball, setting it aside then making himself more comfortable on the bench, spreading his own legs as well: their knees bump against each other, once, and Porco’s mind goes all the way back to that infamous night that he never forgot about.

“Nice,” is all Reiner says, and he keeps his gaze trained ahead, back straight, posture perfect after years of training drilled into him. 

“We should hang out,” blurts Porco then, before he can put a filter between his brain and his mouth: Reiner’s head snaps towards him at those words, surprise plain to see in his features. “Like… you know. Get some drinks, catch up. That kind of stuff.”

“…alright,” is Reiner’s answer, and Porco can’t help but scoff, trying to mask his awkwardness by picking on his dumb reaction.

“Alright. You look pleased, I’d say,” he spits, and chuckles as Reiner snorts, a grin quickly popping up on his lips, the tips of his teeth catching Porco’s attention as they rest on his lower plump lip.

“Blame me for being surprised. Thought you’d never ask.”

Porco clicks his tongue. “You could’ve asked me first, then, you arse.”

At Porco’s playful insult, Reiner throws him a sideways glance that, coupled with half-lidded eyes and a criminal half-smirk, cause a visceral reaction deep down Porco’s stomach that makes him swallow too loudly for comfort. “I’m not going to push my luck,” he drawls, and Porco wonders, does he even imagine whatever the fuck he’s doing to him? Is it on purpose? He’s not even halfway through his sandwich, for fuck’s sake.

Then, the mood changes, as it frequently does when Reiner is involved. “I’m glad we can talk shit like this,” he sighs, the profanity making Porco scoff in disbelief. “It’s not something you can take for granted, after what happened.”

“It’s really not,” agrees Porco, swallowing his bite. “But we’ve gotta keep our morale up.”

“I guess.”

Porco shouldn’t have entertained that thought: now Reiner is slouching, his gaze distant, unfocused. He must be thinking of Gabi, just like Colt rarely ever speaks now, thinking of Falco. And Udo, and Zofia… and Zeke, despite everything that happened.

He shifts closer, so that their legs are touching: Porco is spreading them so wide that no one could see it as an intimate gesture, after all. They’re just sitting close to each other, that’s all. That’s just how he sits.

There’s a small dimple at the corner of Reiner’s mouth as he smiles, gently. “Thanks,” he murmurs, shoving his leg lightly so that they bump knees again.

Porco bumps back with his own, busying himself with whatever’s left of his sandwich.

Porco’s been waiting for minutes, and Reiner is still nowhere to be seen.

Given that most of the work is done, he’s taking this evening as his last moment of peace that he can actually enjoy: earlier that afternoon Reiner was summoned at headquarters for an emergency briefing that, of course, had to do with their surprise attack. They’ve been meeting at every possible occasion for the past two weeks, and Porco suspects that it’s almost time for him to go, to finally set foot on that island- to leave Reiner behind. Weird how they’re switching sides, now. Ironic, even.

“Good evening,” says then Karina Braun, opening the door and peeking outside with her head: she’s holding a scarf up to her chin, lungs still in bad shape after all the dust she’d breathed in during the attack. Porco wishes her a good evening as well, asking how she’s doing, and she merely shrugs with her visible shoulder, stepping forward to lengthen the conversation.

“I’ve been better,” she replies eventually, and is about to add something, but Porco can hear Reiner sigh from somewhere behind her: his hands are on her shoulders now, as he tries to get her back inside gently.

“You’re going to catch something, mum. Careful,” he chides, and Karina Braun does step backwards, glancing up at her very tall son.

“Oh, don’t you worry about me, Reiner. Porco is here already, aren’t you late?”

She seems positively delighted at that: Porco snorts when Reiner sighs, again. It seems that he’s already at the stage where parents behave like little bitchy children.

“Yeah, very. We’re off then,” he concludes, stepping outside, and Porco inhales sharply as soon as their eyes meet: lately he’s always seen him fatigued, disheveled, covered in rubble and dirt, his hair pushed back with sweat. Now he’s clearly had a shower, his hair neatly combed to the side, and it’s gotten even longer, bangs almost reaching his eyebrows: the shirt he’s wearing is doing wonders for his form, too.

“Hi,” he grunts then, openly staring. Then- “uh, good evening again, Miss Braun,” he calls, moving to the side so he can see past Karina Braun’s very, very distracting son. She answers in kind with a wave of her hand, then disappears inside, and they’re finally alone.

“Hi?” snorts Reiner, a hint of a smirk pulling at his lips. There it is, again- that dimple on the corner of his mouth. “What happened?”

“You happened,” is Porco’s frank answer: distantly, he’s reminded of Ymir, how she’d said something similar in one of her memories. “I mean, you look… fancy.”

Now Reiner chuckles, lips sealed, and it shakes his shoulders so gently that Porco has trouble keeping his eyes trained on him. “I’m dressed as always.”

“Maybe it’s the hair,” he suggests, throwing a shrug for good measure, to look casual and unbothered. “It suits you.”

“Well, thanks,” scoffs Reiner, starting to walk so that Porco follows him. “You’re in the mood for compliments today.”

Porco clears his throat, shoving both fists in his pockets. “I just say what I think.”

As they make their way across the street, Porco spies a small smile resting on Reiner’s lips: he finds he’s doing the same, and looks away, his cheeks suddenly warmer than comfort.

They end up getting a drink from one of the few bars still open: there’s an awful lot of soldiers there, either very drunk or very passed out in their seats, so when Porco and Reiner step in it’s only natural for them to be greeted by nothing short of an uproar, and various exclamations of gratitude and admiration. Porco is very, very embarrassed, and Reiner is, too, because he keeps glancing at him, eyes wide- and for a split second he looks as awkward as he was back when they were kids.

As soon as they step outside, drinks in hand, they both sigh out of relief. “How do you do it?” asks Porco, running a hand through his freshly washed hair, so that a few strands end up falling down on his forehead.

“Do what?” is Reiner’s distracted answer: he’s staring at Porco’s hair now, for some reason.

“Oh, the whole hero of Liberio thing. Isn't being showered in praise and all that shit your thing?"

“Kind of,” he chuckles, raising his eyebrows and leaning back against the wall. “It never stops being embarrassing, though.”

“I bet,” snorts Porco, downing his drink and shivering as the bitterness of it splashes down his throat. “This fucking sucks. Should’ve gone out to get some actual decent stuff for once."

Reiner drinks as well, and squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing loudly and making a face: Porco laughs at him as he sets the empty glass on the nearby windowsill, hand immediately reaching in his pocket to grab his pack of cigarettes. “Probably,” he considers, putting the glass down near Porco’s.

“Want one?” he offers, a cigarette between his lips, holding the mostly empty packet before Reiner’s eyes: he considers the offer, then nods, much to Porco’s surprise.

“Why not? It’s been a while.”

“So you’ve tried already?” wonders Porco, grinning around his cigarette as he rummages in all the pockets he’s got, searching for his lighter. “What would your mum think?”

Reiner takes the cigarette from the packet with expertise, movements he’s already done before, and holds it between his lips while shifting forward, cheeks hollowing as he inhales, the light of the small flame reflected in the warm amber of his eyes. When he steps back he takes the cigarette out almost immediately, releasing a puff of smoke that makes him draw his eyebrows together.

“It’s been a while,” he rasps, swallowing thickly as Porco watches, exhaling from his nose as he takes out his own. “These are strong.”

“It’s what I’ve always smoked. Commander Magath’s favourites.”

“General,” hums Reiner as he takes another drag. He definitely holds it in less than Porco does, but there’s a charm to it- smoking doesn’t really suit him, thinks Porco, but he’s transfixed by the way his lips move around the cigarette, how he leans back against the wall so casually. “So how long have you been doing this?”

“Can’t remember,” blurts out Porco, honest. He did avert his eyes, but he still glances up at Reiner, sideways. “When did you first try, then? Never seen you smoke before.”

“Can’t remember,” echoes Reiner, an easy smirk on his face that makes Porco want to take a longer drag out of his cigarette, so he does just that. “Must’ve been on my first month in the trainee corps, back on Paradis… someone stole a bunch of these from the instructor, so we tried. Though they were different.”

“Bad boys,” drawls Porco, noticing how he’s already halfway through his cigarette. “Did… Bertolt and Annie try, too?”

He sucks in a breath before answering, hanging his head. “No, Annie didn’t… she kept to herself during the day. And Bertolt, you can probably guess.”

“He didn’t.”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like him.”

Porco doesn’t miss how Reiner licks his lips, slowly, after blowing out another puff of smoke. “So you wanted to know what we did on the island? That’s why you asked me to hang out?”

“No,” scoffs Porco, flicking off the cigarette butt to step on it. “I just wanted to catch up, all that, you know.”

“I’m not offended,” clarifies Reiner, doing the same with his spent cigarette, “I’m glad you’re asking these things.”

“Why’s that?”

“It means, I think… that you’re making an effort to get to know me.”

They stare into each other’s eyes for several, long seconds, before Porco grimaces in confusion. “But I do know you.”

Reiner shrugs, his head leaning to the side at such an angle that most of his neck is exposed, courtesy of the collar of his shirt that sits low around it. “I’m not sure about that.”

He’s right. Porco really doesn’t know anything about Reiner- though he doesn’t want to admit it. What sense does it make, to feel this way towards someone you hardly know?

Reiner got Marcel killed, he considers, as he looks up into his eyes.

Reiner got Bertolt killed and Annie was kidnapped because of him, he reasons, as he averts his eyes, shifting to the side so that their arms are almost touching.

Reiner failed his mission, he reminds himself, as he clears his throat, fingertips tracing an invisible path on the brick wall behind them.

Reiner saved his life, he thinks, as his fingers intertwine with his, holding him tightly. He knows enough.

“Then explain this,” he grunts, not daring to look up, as Reiner audibly holds his breath. “Cos I sure as fuck can’t.”

He doesn't squeeze back, but it's fine, Porco wasn't expecting him to anyway. He can spot out of the corner of his eye how he’s looking down, too. Thankfully no one’s out in the streets, now that it’s almost curfew. “I’ve got no idea,” he answers eventually, his voice low, hesitant.

“You feel the same way, though.”

“…I do.”

Porco’s heart skips a beat: now, only now, he looks at Reiner, and he finds that he’s looking back at him, his cheeks red, lips drawn in a tight line.

They’re still holding hands.

“What are we doing?” he blurts out then, Reiner’s eyes widening progressively as he keeps talking, “Like, what the fuck- I should be punching you in the face every single day for all you’ve done. Why am I not doing it? Why am I holding your sodding hand?”

Reiner is completely still as he answers, “beats me,” in the same low voice he’s been using ever since Porco’s hand reached for his.

“Yeah, so fuck that,” growls Porco, holding Reiner’s hands even tighter, to the point that he hopes it’ll bruise- so that others will know. “You know what I want to do now? Try to guess.”

Before answering, Reiner sighs- there’s something in his eyes, a glint, that doesn’t go unnoticed. Porco’s gaze is sharp, he feels like he’s finally cornered him. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, almost meek, pliant. Oh, he could eat him.

“I want to kiss you, that’s what.”

Reiner shivers, slightly, as Porco says that. There it is, again, that glint, now stronger- it’s in the way he blinks slowly, now, his eyelids heavy, his lips parted as he looks around, quickly, as if scouring their surroundings for hidden enemies. “I don’t see anyone around,” he drawls then, gaze darting back to Porco, hunger stretching leisurely across the insides of Porco’s stomach.

“Oh,” scoffs Porco, a grin spreading on his lips, slowly, “like that would stop me.”

“Wouldn’t it?”

“No. I wouldn’t want to, anyway,” he shoots back, his own voice way lower than usual, and he doesn’t miss the way Reiner’s breath hitches in his throat at his words.

Then, it happens.

Porco grabs the front of Reiner’s shirt and shoves him around the corner of the building, away from prying eyes: once there, he slams him back against the wall, a low grunt thumping deep in his chest, their mouths colliding, warm tongues and ragged breathing and shivering fingers tracing each other’s jawline, neck, shoulders.

His skin is warm, its smell inebriating, and Porco runs the flat of his tongue over his chin, stubble prickling at it, as Reiner shivers again, harder: his nose digs into Porco’s cheek and he kisses him back, biting down on his lower lip, tugging on it as he leans back, releasing it only to lap at it immediately after, Porco’s own tongue slipping out to lick into his mouth, Reiner’s moan lighting his insides on fire.

Everything spins away, slowly: Porco is acting purely on instinct now, using Reiner’s grunts and occasional moans to gauge what feels good and what doesn’t. He claws at Reiner’s shirt, tracing his collarbones with shaking fingertips, running both hands down his chest, the fabric irritating to the touch: he pushes up against Reiner’s lips, his head knocked back into the wall, again, and the groan that echoes in their mouths goes straight down Porco’s spine, warmth pooling deep down his stomach.

“Wait, Galliard,” gasps Reiner, hands grasping at Porco’s biceps as he shifts to the side, kissing and biting all across his jawline, the short beard there catching deliciously on his chapped lips, "wait-"

"Told you I wouldn't be able to stop," grunts Porco, lips glued to Reiner's jaw, and he resumes his assault, now sinking his teeth on the side of Reiner’s neck just below his ear, a strangled moan from him that only eggs Porco on, “do you want me to drop it?”

Before Reiner can answer, Porco leaves a slow, hot, open-mouthed kiss right where he left his mark, Reiner’s hips snapping forward as he holds onto Porco’s arms for dear life.

“Fucking answer me,” growls then Porco, growing impatient, his pants tight on his groin as he goes lower, tracing a wet and sloppy path of kisses all over Reiner’s warm neck: his chin tingles after rubbing so much all over Reiner’s scruff, and he stops to catch his breath, still waiting for some semblance of consent.

Reiner swallows, licking his lips before answering, keeping his distance with his whole body leaning against the wall as if trying to escape from Porco. “I don’t know,” he starts, wiping his mouth on his wrist, “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

Of course. Porco snorts, still breathing heavily, and he can taste Reiner’s skin on his lips as cold, hard lucidity cuts through his foggy mind. “You should take a look at the state of your pants instead of talking shit.”

At those words, Reiner’s head falls back against the wall, and he huffs, his chest still heaving, its motion hypnotizing. “You don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t, so you better explain fast.”

“Fine,” concedes Reiner, low in his throat, before he shoots back, “you hate me, don’t you? So why are we here, doing this?”

Porco swallows, his groin pulling from the inside, asking for release. It’s not easy to ignore it. “I asked you before, didn’t I? Shit we can’t explain.”

“So you just kissed me for the hell of it?”

"Yeah," he breathes, his own eyes widening, "I wanted to. So I did it."

A beat, then Reiner shakes his head. "You're not making any sense."

"Am I?" retorts Porco, lifting his chin. They're still too close for comfort. "You want a reason for everything, don't you? I'll give you one."

"Galliard-"

"I don't want to think about all my failures and how I was literally used as a damn nutcracker before getting my head smashed open. And if this helps I fucking welcome it," he spits then, getting all up in Reiner's face, their bodies coming into contact again. "Got a problem with that?"

Reiner licks his lips, giving himself time to think of a reasonable answer, all while Porco can feel the heat of the moment sizzling away quietly. He hates it: then, Reiner shakes his head, slowly, and deals the finishing blow. "You’re not thinking straight, Galliard.”

It stings, more than Porco wants to admit to himself. It’s another refusal: first Pieck, now it’s Reiner, no matter if his feelings are genuine or born of desperation and, he pretty much accepts it now, loneliness. A word that makes him sigh, drop the act and step back, away from Reiner’s body and his warmth.

“Want me to hold your hand and go on a date? Then maybe you’d stop being such a dick,” he spits, running a hand through his hair as Reiner clicks his tongue, massaging his temple with his eyes closed, as if nursing a sudden headache. “It’s just that, we’re fooling around, trying not to think how shit our lives are. What’s the big deal.”

“I don’t want to fool around,” bites back Reiner, his eyes snapping open: now he’s got Porco’s attention properly. “You can ask someone else for that.”

Despite the clear refusal, Porco chuckles, tasting poison under his tongue. “Better fuck off, then.”

Reiner doesn’t move, though: his gaze is harder now, eyebrows low on his eyes, swollen lips perfectly sealed. He glares at him for so long that Porco has to raise his chin and shake his head at him, questioningly. “I told you to fuck off, didn’t I?”

“Why are you doing this to me?” blurts out then Reiner, and it catches Porco off guard, to the point that he’s the one who widens his eyes at the other’s words, now. “Are you having fun?”

“I’m not doing anything,” he shoots back, though there’s uncertainty in his voice, and Reiner, of course, picks up on it immediately.

“We were just hanging out, like you said. Now you’re kissing me, and it's nice, but..." he gives himself time to think, licking his lips, where Porco hopes he can still taste him, "it's me, and you, I mean- what sort of messed up game are you playing here?”

He doesn't get it- but Reiner helps him understand, his lips cracking open unpleasantly, the circles under his eyes carved deep into his face, "Marcel is dead because of me."

Porco feels cold, now. Like he just washed his face with cold water in the morning.

"I know," he grunts.

"Then why are you doing this?" he asks again, Reiner- his eyes are shining now. Porco can see tears welling up there.

It comes out of Porco’s lips before he can stop himself. “You saved me,” he murmurs, “and I wanted to make it up to you.”

It seems Reiner can’t believe his ears, and Porco understands him perfectly. He can’t believe his own thoughts either.

“I don’t want that,” he whispers, his voice so low, small. Disappointed. “I… really, really don’t.”

Porco averts his eyes. “Fine,” is all he manages to say, running both hands through his hair, now, a spontaneous grimace coming up on his mouth- not here, not now of all times. He can’t tear up. He definitely can’t- for what, even, a few kisses? He's better than this. He's better than Reiner. “Fine, then… I’m off, whatever. You make me sick.”

He’s already stepping away, when Reiner reaches out with a hand- but he doesn't call for him. Pitiful, detestable, hypocritical little soldier.

Liberio fucking sucks at night when you’re walking home and it’s almost curfew and your eyes are full of tears, it turns out.


	15. 15 - and no one sings me lullabies and no one makes me close my eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before you start!! there won't be a chapter next week bc i'll be focusing on gallirei week <3 if you didn't know about it go check it out on twitter @ gallirei_week !! 
> 
> enjoy <3

Dissociation is the first word that springs to mind when Porco wakes up the following morning.

He slips out of bed on surprisingly steady legs, then he reasons, as he walks to the bathroom- he can't exactly feel them. It's like the soles of his feet stopped working overnight, like he isn't really walking, just floating, moving around into space. Wandering aimlessly.

No reaction from his skin as he splashes cold water on his face- is it even cold? Could be lukewarm, could be boiling hot, he doesn't think it'd make a difference. Should he bother with the hair? Yeah, he probably should, no way he's allowing people to spot a crack in his armor, fuck that word and everything it stands for.

There it is, and he breaks, right in the middle, Porco grimaces and grabs the edge of the sink, hard, elbows shaking, spine bending forward.

 _I don't want that_ , he keeps hearing in his head, it reverberates all over, carrying poison, spreading it all through Porco's veins. Oh, it hurts, and he didn't think it would, even though he'd entertained more than once the thought that maybe, just maybe, there could've been something born out of loneliness and primal needs.

 _Marcel is dead because of me_ , spoken like an unconvenient little secret, though Porco knows that no matter where they are and who it is, everyone will always spot the blood of the missing warriors on Reiner's hands, despite the pleasant smiles, the sincere wishes of a good day.

Breath is squeezed out of his lungs when he realizes that yes, he'll gladly let those bloodied hands crush him to dust if need be- and maybe this is all happening now, even. That would explain everything.

He shivers all over, but he's not cold in the least.

The meeting requires formal attire, and thankfully Porco’s father still remembers how to put on a tie properly.

He’s working on its knot as he steals glances at Porco’s face every now and then, from under bushy, grey eyebrows. “You’ve grown,” he grumbles then, as he nods to signal that he’s done with it. He steps back, Porco tugging on the shorter strand to tighten it around the collar of his shirt, then barely hums in answer at those words.

“I’m twenty one,” is all he says. It feels like he’s lived twice as long, but he knows he’s still young, to his parents’ eyes. He always will be.

“Still a kid,” grunts back his father, and Porco offers him a tight-lipped smile before thanking him, curtly, then making sure his hair is all combed neatly to the back as he walks into the kitchen, his mother doing the dishes already.

“I’m off,” he says, patting his pockets for his cigarettes. His mother nods, and only then Porco walks out of the door, wondering if someone at headquarters will have a spare lighter in case he forgot his own.

He’s seen very little of Pieck lately, what with his constant help in rebuilding Liberio and all: they greet with a silent nod as they step in Zeke’s former room, now used for their several briefings regarding the surprise attack on Paradis.

“Good morning,” greets the Commander- General, remembers Porco, General Magath, as they sit on the side of the table that isn’t occupied already by Colt. Reiner is nowhere to be seen, and Porco is glad, because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to look him in the eye.

“You’re leaving on Thursday,” announces Colt immediately, reading from his report, and Porco’s blood goes cold. “A ship will bring you to the northern side of the island, where the Paradis forces are scarce and unorganized. Following the path down the mountains you’ll be able to reach the outer wall and blend in with the people there, hopefully. Your goal is the capital, located right at the centre of the island."

“Once there,” picks up General Magath, hands joined behind his back, “you’ll make contact with the undercover spies who managed to get in last week. They’re going to help you slip past security to locate both Zeke and Eren Jaeger: one or both, it’s all good, but you’ll need to incapacitate them.”

Pieck raises her hand, waiting for the General’s approval before speaking. “Are we going to blend in as soldiers? We know next to nothing about their current military system. Reiner’s report was exhaustive and detailed, but things could have changed in four years, especially after they got into contact with other nations.”

Before the General can answer, Colt interjects, report still in hand, “we know of their three different branches, don’t we? I think that, if they ever reformed, the soldiers who protected the walls would have disbanded or enlisted either in their police or the Survey Corps that Reiner joined years ago. They’re not going to scout the walls as much as they did before, and we got confirmation of it from our contact barely a couple of days ago."

“Yeah, it's just a theory though,” pipes up Porco, Colt’s head turning so he can look at him, “for all we know they could’ve changed things up and fortified the island all around. What if we walk into a trap?”

“Let’s put it like this: there’s no easy way to infiltrate, no surefire plan. This is our best bet, and it involves the two of you getting to the capital to secure the location of both Zeke and the Founder, then communicate it to us so we can deploy the zeppelins and launch an aerial attack,” concludes General Magath, clearly irritated. “I’m not asking favours. I’m giving orders here.”

Colt hides his gaze as he hangs his head, so Porco can’t see it properly, but he’s sure that he’d find a glint in his eyes that he once had, too: the look you get when an adult is on your side, when you’re right, and you proved other people wrong. An arrogance that he wishes he still had, so he could talk back to the General, but he has no strength left to bother.

He’s leaving in a couple of days. His stomach turns unpleasantly, and he grimaces as he crosses his arms over it.

“Dismissed,” sighs General Magath, all of them standing up, “I’ll give you all the details during this afternoon’s briefing. It’s going to be very thorough so get yourselves ready.”

It's almost lunchtime, and Porco, like clockwork, walks to his usual spot in the courtyard to smoke a quick one.

Usually, Zeke would join him: now it's Colt who stands there, back to the wall, arms crossed and no cigarette in sight. Porco lifts his chin just barely, as a greeting, and busies himself immediately with his lighter as he stands right beside him: Colt doesn't even acknowledge him, not verbally at least.

"Are you mad cos I shut you up?" spits Porco, cigarette held between both rows of teeth as he shoves the lighter back in his pocket, inhaling sharply while waiting for an answer.

"I'm not mad," mumbles Colt then, after a long while, the back of Porco's head hitting the wall softly as he blows smoke out of his nose. "I can't stop worrying, that's it."

Porco can't help his small snort, though he doesn't smile. "You sound like your little brother."

No retort, but then again Porco knows that he's just struck a nerve: he keeps prodding at it, licking his lips after taking the cigarette out. "Bet you want to get on that sodding island as fast as you can."

Now, Colt snorts back, bitter, animated, like Porco's rarely ever seen him. "I would have followed that airship immediately."

"You'd make a shit warrior, just running off on your own and acting like some sort of suicidal hero."

"What difference does it make," spits Colt, "I might not even inherit the Beast at this point. All these years, just going down the drain... and there's Falco and Gabi missing, to top it all."

Porco glances sideways, now, and he sees Colt's eyes starting to well up a bit too fast for his comfort: he sighs, staring up at the sky, uncannily cloudy today. "They're probably giving them hell, you know they're tough."

A slight scoff, then Colt says, with a heavier accent than usual, "tough as a nut," then proceeds to scoff again, this time more to himself. Porco raises both his eyebrows at that, throwing the cigarette butt away.

"Can't put my finger on that impression for some reason, who's that," he rasps, clearing his throat, and he bites back a smirk at seeing Colt's face relax as he stares off into the distance, at nothing in particular.

"That would be General Magath," he reveals, Porco snorting, Colt following suit immediately after. "Or rather, Falco's impression of him. He kept repeating that after his first day at the academy, back in the day, because he found it so funny. I can't remember what he was talking about, though, it's been so long..."

Porco shakes his head. "Hard to imagine that he had a sense of humour at some point. He's like the gloomiest teenager I've ever seen."

"That's Falco for you," sighs Colt, though there's fondness in his voice as he adds, "he's full of surprises. Not good ones, necessarily."

"I bet."

A cold wind starts picking up: Porco shivers in his uniform, the soft rustling of leaves filling the silence between them. They should probably go back inside before Colt catches something- but he stays there, unbothered, eyelids heavy and a hint of a frown on him.

"I keep telling myself that I've been too harsh on him, too many times," he reveals then, his voice cracking halfway through, "I don't even know about his opinion of me as an older brother, it's just this feeling I've got that I can't shake off."

Porco tries to cut it short with some stilted positivity as he tells him, cocking his head to the side, "you can tell all that to him when you'll see each other again in a few days."

No answer: Porco turns his head, and he sees that Colt is staring right at him, eyes glassy yet again.

"What if I never see him again, then?" he asks, a whisper, "what will I do with myself?"

Porco averts his eyes first- Marcel. What has Porco done with himself up until now, after knowing that he lost his older brother on that island?

Does he even want to think of an answer?

"Keep your chin up," he deadpans, after a while, trying his best to sound as human as possible, "don't think about the what ifs, those never help."

Yeah, what did he even do to honour Marcel, all these years, while he keeps slipping away from him, slowly becoming a vague childhood memory and nothing more?

"I guess I can't help myself. I apologise," blurts out Colt then, and it's funny, that word, now.

Porco swallows bile, and grimaces.

"No biggie. I'm going back in, don't want to get soaked," he grunts, Colt unresponsive, as they both head back inside before the impending rain can get to them.

It's probably almost lunchtime: Porco parts ways with Colt, headed to the leftmost wing of the building so he can make it out of there faster. Once he turns the corner and sees the door that leads outside to the back of the courtyard, he spots someone standing in the way.

Reiner is leaning against the wall, arms crossed on his chest as he gazes out of the open door, rain falling relentlessly and making it impossible for Porco to walk past him as if nothing ever happened. For a second or two he toys with the idea of turning around and go for the front door, but he's better than that, he's no coward.

It’s not that he wants to apologise, but they didn’t exactly bid each other goodnight, and it wasn’t on the best terms. Porco sighs, steeling himself and crossing the corridor, its lights turned off so that the grey sky casts an aseptic light all across the walls and floor.

“Oi,” he grunts, leaning against the wall directly opposite Reiner, who turns his head just slightly so he can look at him: Porco’s breath catches in his throat. He’s… he can’t find the words, but his mouth feels dry, the collar of his shirt too tight.

“You’re early,” he murmurs, his low voice blending perfectly with the pouring rain and its smell, earthy and rich. Porco hangs his head, sighing to give himself time to think about what to say.

“I got summoned so the General could tell us when we’re leaving,” blurts out Porco then, crossing his arms tighter. “This Thursday.”

“I know.”

Rain, again, does the talking between them. Now they exchange glances, again- staring, studying, searching.

Longing- Porco feels like throwing up.

“I’m scared,” is what comes out of his mouth, in a shaky, uncharacteristic voice. Reiner perks up, lips slightly parted, and Porco keeps going, “I feel like something’s going to happen. Can’t shake it off no matter what I do.”

He can hear those same words in Colt's voice, and he grimaces around another sigh.

“It’s a very important mission, I’d be surprised if you weren’t. I am, too,” confesses Reiner, his eyelashes almost white under the grey light cast all around them, the wet sound of falling rain ricocheting back and forth with no signs of stopping.

Porco shakes his head, slowly. “It’s not the same. Missions are always scary, it’s not… that.”

“What are you scared of, then?” asks Reiner, and it’s gentle, he’s not taking the piss. He genuinely wants to know, his eyebrows are even furrowed in thought, he’s worried.

Before he can say anything, Porco allows himself to stare, to commit Reiner's features to memory, sharp cheekbones and defined jawline and thick lips and all, his eyelashes, the dimple at the corner of his mouth when he smiles. Like it’s the last time they’ll ever be able to exist as themselves and nothing more, in the same place at the same time.

A last chance.

“I’m afraid I won’t see you ever again,” he manages to say, then, his voice breaking halfway through. “And I fucked it all up last night.”

He wishes Reiner would cross the distance between them, look down at him, murmur something, anything, with that deep voice of his that could comfort Porco even for a while- he wants to hold his hand, he discovers, just like when he was a child and wanted to hold Marcel’s.

As Reiner stays still, right there, just looking, Porco wonders if he’s not asking for too much. He quickly forgets ever thinking about that, his hands prickling at the thought of coming into contact with Reiner, again- it’s all he wants, right now. He needs someone who can take it, everything that Porco has to spit and throw and scream, and Reiner is the only one who can do that- he's always been.

“I don't know what the hell is going on with me,” continues Porco, averting his gaze despite himself, Reiner still unmoving, so he starts to burn, slowly, like a lit candle, wax melting and dripping down as he adds, “and it's fucking killing me."

Now Reiner closes his eyes, a slow, deep sigh that gets lost in the rain, still falling, still filling the silence between them. “I’m not the person you need, Galliard.”

“And that’s complete bullshit,” he panics, now, Porco sure as hell can’t take another refusal, not now when he’s at his wits' end, “cos you kissed me back, you wanted me back, and nothing’s changed in a few hours, right? You- you fucking checked me out the other day, we went out for drinks, we-”

“I got Marcel killed,” interjects Reiner then, his voice cold and sharp, steel that catches under Porco’s teeth and stops him from saying anything else for a good ten seconds or so. He just stares up at him, processing those words, things they already know that keep hurting them at every turn.

“I know,” nods Porco, his eyes wide as he takes in Reiner’s frown, his mouth sealed, a sigh that drags his shoulders down. "How many times do you want to remind me."

“Stop, why do you keep doing this,” is Reiner’s challenge, though it’s tired, spoken amid another sigh, and he averts his eyes, he clicks his tongue… he’s so expressive lately, maybe that’s why Porco swallows and runs a hand through his hair, searching for an answer he doesn’t have.

An apology that Reiner doesn’t feel like he has the right to ask for; some semblance of comfort, though they’re all scared and Porco’s fears aren’t special, and they most probably can’t be soothed with a few words in the span of an afternoon; explanations, why the fuck he wanted to act like Marcel so bad when he was on Paradis. There’s so many things, really…

…a kiss, perhaps, several of them, like those they shared last night, feverish and sloppy, lips burning as they slid between sharp teeth, licked by a warm tongue, sucked in the other’s mouth.

“It’s just you,” murmurs Porco then, Reiner drawing his eyebrows together. “It's always been you, that's why.”

"What," he sighs, keeping his voice down as well, the perfect fit for the rhythmical pattering of the rain.

Thunder strikes, and Porco's breath shakes in his throat, and it hurts, words catching on spiky thorns on their way out as he confesses, "I want you, alright? I fucking want you."

A crack in the armor, again- Reiner closes his eyes, Porco keeps digging deeper, lips splitting open almost painfully, "I always have."

Now, Reiner's eyes shoot open: he looks to the side, out in the courtyard as the rain keeps falling. His bottom lip is quivering ever so slightly, eyes full of tears, his iris a perfect reflection of the cloudy sky outside, like a mirror, grey and aseptic, its pattern looking like cracks in the glass.

"I can't do this," he sighs, a whisper, hoarse, defeated. "I'm going to ruin you."

Porco's head starts shaking of its own accord. "That's the whole point, it's what you do, isn't it. You just ruin things. You've taken everything away from me anyway," he drones, eyes unblinking. "Just finish me off for good."

No answer, nothing.

He looks like a statue, unblinking, completely still, and Porco is reminded of when he was recovering in bed, looking like a corpse, after having saved his life.

That awkward teenage boy, standing in the middle of the plaza at night, in front of the hero's statue, and the look he'd exchanged with Porco back then.

His pink cheeks after he smiled at him, accepting the apple that rolled on the table.

"I guess it's over," he cracks, not only his voice, but his whole body, "whatever that was."

Before he can control himself, Porco glances back at him- he sees a tear leaving its mark down Reiner's cheek, and he blinks, fast, several times, he tears himself away from that wall and walks away, almost runs, all the way to the other side of the building, he'll gladly take all the rain he can get.

He doesn't follow him, but then again Porco never expected him to.

They sit opposite each other during the briefing, everyone in the room listening dutifully to General Magath’s words, nodding when required.

Occasionally, the General asks Reiner for his input: he obliges, standing up, back straight and chest puffed up as he answers in his most formal voice, focused and professional. As if nothing ever happened.

Porco can’t even look at him.

Every now and then, Reiner speaks up, and General Magath takes his words into consideration: they argue quite a bit on the best ways to infiltrate, Reiner more on the cautious side, doubtful, needing a small push to speak his mind properly in front of the General. Porco can't even consider himself entertained as the General outright challenges him, pushing him into a corner to see just how he’ll manage to get out of it this time, and the next one, and so on and so forth.

“So you’re not sure if the north is still unguarded?” he provokes, that small discussion they had on one of their previous briefings coming to Porco’s mind, “think we might walk into a trap?”

“It’s not a matter of being sure or not,” retorts Reiner, Porco wishing he could walk out of the room right this instant, “now that they’re aware of the outer world they’ll surely be prepared to face infiltrations. Our best bet is still an aerial attack, coordinated from the ground, of course- but we need to be more than careful when getting in.”

General Magath crosses his arms, a half smirk on his face: Porco’s rarely ever seen him this entertained. He’s having fun. “What do you suggest then? I’m not going to ignore your opinions, even if you’re an Eldian.”

Silence, now, the provocation a bit too heavy, perhaps- but then again, even if General Magath got somehow softer with age, his hidden edge is always ready to strike at a moment's notice.

Reiner’s lips click as he answers, calm and collected, “I still think I should be going with them, I know my way around. I could get them to the outer wall without being detected, then come back and join the aerial assault squad.”

Everyone in the room has been following this back-and-forth between Reiner and the General for several minutes now, no one daring to speak up. It feels more like a battle of wills than a briefing.

“I can’t allow that,” sighs General Magath, hanging his head, and Porco swallows bile at those words, openly grimacing. “You’re too valuable to the airborne force. We can’t risk it, and they could spot you, too. Your beard is nice and all, but it’s not going to work as a disguise I'm afraid.”

Only then, Pieck pipes up, sitting right next to Reiner: “don’t worry, we’ll manage,” she says, a kind smile that is not very well received by Reiner. He nods, but he keeps his eyes down, deflating visibly- and Porco looks away, before he can spot him.

“Now, if that’s convinced you enough, War Chief,” starts again General Magath, a fondness in his voice that takes Porco by surprise, “we can go over the specifics of the infiltration.”

For the remainder of the briefing, Porco offers little to none input, and he can see it- or rather, he can feel, Reiner's gaze swimming around him, prodding, trying to find an opening.

Porco hopes he's given up on it when, walking out of the room after all is said and done, he doesn't even spare him a glance, lungs squeezing his heart as if they wanted to stop it.

On Wednesday morning, Porco stars counting down the hours.

His stomach appears to shrivel as he tries to force some of his breakfast down: he gives up quickly, grimacing at the mostly untouched runny egg in his plate. He thought he’d been handling this kind of thing better, lately, but it turns out that he’s just regressing into former, unhealthy habits.

His mother asks no questions when Porco stands up, taking his plate to the kitchen counter and letting the egg slide down onto hers, a couple of other eggs still sizzling quietly in the pan. She murmurs her thanks, Porco shrugs, then downs his glass of water in a blink and goes back to his bedroom to get dressed, right as his father walks into the bathroom, and no words are exchanged there.

He's barely finished to put his clothes on when someone knocks: Porco rolls his eyes, though he grunts, "come in," and the door clicks open.

"Want me to tidy up this afternoon?" asks his mother, speaking at a much lower volume than usual. Porco turns around to look at her, but she doesn't meet his gaze: she's focused on Marcel's side of the room, his old bed demoted to shelf for whatever can fit on there, be it dirty clothes or old belongings or even dusty old plushies.

Porco grits his teeth for a split second, then nods. "Yeah, I don't know when I'll be back anyway. Fresh air, all that."

"I could move his stuff out."

Now this truly does catch Porco's attention.

"Why," he mouths, almost, mirroring her habit of speaking quietly when it's about someone who isn't there but could listen in- as if Marcel could get the chance to. Then again, they never threw away any of his clothes or plushies, and his bed is still there after so many years.

As if he could come back.

"He's not coming back, is he," she offers then, clashing violently with Porco's thoughts, voice wet from deep down her throat.

Porco doesn't know what to make of this whole exchange, so he grabs the lighter on the bedside table and walks out, shrugging, throwing in a "whatever" just to be polite enough.

His father doesn't even look up from his plate as Porco walks out, closing the door behind him much more quietly than he usually would.

It takes him a while to realize it, but Porco's been actively avoiding anyone he knows all morning long.

The weather's sunny today, a far cry from yesterday's downpour, so Porco can't blame himself for spending a couple of hours just sitting under the tree in the academy courtyard, toying with his empty packet of cigarettes: he'd forgotten to buy a new one yesterday, and he doesn't feel like going out of his way to get another now. He might have left his wallet at home anyway, and he's too lazy to check his pockets.

The old clock tower's been repaired very recently, so when it strikes thirteen the streets start emptying quickly, people going back home for lunch: Porco decides he'll skip it, his stomach still the size of a penny, plus he'd much rather go have a long walk to clear his mind.

It's funny, he starts behaving just like a little child whenever something refuses to go his way.

If someone's even bothering to look for him, then they're doing a pretty shit job because Porco sees literally no one he knows for the remainder of the day. He wanders freely out of the gate, people barely even paying attention to him and his armband, how pale he must look- he'd noticed that earlier in the morning, it was just like seeing a ghost in the mirror, and surviving on an empty stomach surely doesn't help.

He only stops in front of the statue in the plaza, staring up at it, bronze shining under the afternoon sun, a bright orange that bathes everything in warmth and that sits just right with Porco: a deep breath, and his shoulders relax, he unclenches his fists, hands still guarded in his pockets though.

His mind starts wandering and, right when Porco closes his eyes, it comes to him- borders smudged with the passing of time, added details that sound unnatural, contrived, but it's still there, that memory, one of his favourites, one of his own.

It's hard to say now, because so much time has passed, but Porco still wonders what did he truly think of Reiner back then, underneath all the resentment, the antagonism, the rivalry... and how it all got blown out of proportion later on, and worsened, thanks to what happened to Marcel.

Something from that memory that he never forgot, and he still thinks about, even too often for his comfort, is the weight of Reiner's gaze back then. He still wonders what it all meant.

He'll never know, at this point.

One last look at Helos, then he walks away.

Porco gets home when it's almost dark, jacket in hand, and toes his boots off to the side, carelessly. He's going to need them in the morning anyway.

His mother is sitting at the table, not at her usual spot, but on the empty chair next to Porco- Marcel's spot. He can't help but notice, and she turns around, eyes wide with both relief and surprise.

"Your father just went to bed," she explains, keeping her voice down as Porco throws the jacket on the table, eyeing the plate with raised eyebrows- pear slices arranged in a neat little sun, together with what would've been a smiling face in the middle. Someone ate the smaller, irregular pieces that served as eyes.

"I'm not hungry," observes Porco, though he sits down on the chair and grabs a slice, taking the smallest bite out of it. It's so sugary and juicy that he almost recoils, and the pear skin's got a funny texture, but he does need to eat something, he reckons.

"It's like him all over again," scoffs his mother, and her voice's not watery for once. "You're just like Marcel."

Porco takes a bigger bite, and ends up eating all of it in no time, immediately grabbing another- his stomach starts rumbling. "Yeah, I wish."

"I know you want to be alone," she interjects, and Porco averts his eyes, all edges lost in the span of a second, "but if you need something, I'm here. I'm your mum."

"Don't need any of that," shoots back Porco, mouth full with the third slice of pear in a row, "where's my father? He'd rather sleep than say goodbye to the only son he's got left. Fat lot of good you two did bringing me up."

"Porco," hisses his mother now, the wrinkles on her face making her look like an old shriveled up blanket that Porco can't wait to toss in the trash, and he huffs, nostrils wide, turning away from her physically. "We don't need you to spell it out. We know."

"Great."

"It's not easy, but we accept that we've done many wrong things-"

"So," interrupts Porco, his hand hitting the table, not so loud to wake up his father but not so quiet not to startle his mother, either, "why are you even telling me all this? I don't need this shit right before a mission."

"You're going on that island," she whispers, her eyes wide, almost bloodshot, now that Porco looks back at her, "and I'm afraid you might not come back."

Porco snorts half-heartedly. "I am coming back, what do you think. We're all going there, no way we can lose," he offers, the slice of pear he's currently eating suddenly spreading the taste of cigarette ash in his mouth.

"Can't your mum be afraid?" she sighs then, and a tired smile stretches her lips- the same tired smile he remembers seeing on Marcel's face, late in the evening, when they were both tired and going to bed after a long day at the academy.

He's not hungry anymore, and there's a few slices left on the plate. "Yeah," he grunts.

"I have many regrets," she confesses, hands joined on the table, where Porco can see them- they're all calloused, wrinkled, ruined, old. "I don't want to regret the way I'm sending you off, too."

Porco shrugs, and has to avert his eyes. He's tapping both heels on the floor, repeatedly, the room getting suddenly too hot for him to handle. Something's wrong, and he doesn't like it. "Whatever," he shrugs, trying to deflect it, to burst the small bubble that rises slowly up his throat.

His mother sighs, hands still joined, now in her lap. "I'm not asking for forgiveness-"

"Then what is it?" he grunts, and he sniffs, he might be catching a cold, he doesn't know. He doesn't get it. "What's this all about? Think that giving me sliced fruit will do something?"

"No," she answers, ready, as if she already played this conversation in her head, and she points to her throat, circles it with one of her calloused hands as she explains, "I just hope I can make this go away. All this guilt."

Porco opens his mouth to retort, to interrupt her, but he finds he has no words to say to that: so, he blinks, and stares.

"I can't sleep at night," she continues, Porco grimacing because he's heard her clearly, every single night, getting up impossibly early and busying herself with whatever she can clean or fix or cook, "because I feel like someone's getting ready to choke me as soon as I let my guard down."

Crystal cracks beneath his teeth- Porco clicks his tongue, shakes his head to make it go away.

"Yeah," he offers- and it's so funny, he can list endless situations in which he's found himself listening to other people's problems, but never a single one in which he's actively helped them.

He feels like he's physically shrinking, and his mother, Mum, is doing the same- she's been doing that all her life, to the point of becoming so small, full of wrinkles, insignificant, her regrets carving paths on her skin for everyone to see and turn their heads away in disgust.

The only thing he can think of is that, mark his words, no way in hell he's becoming like that, like Mum and Dad and General Magath and who knows how many other people.

Before he can form a coherent thought, he stands up, chair dragging unpleasantly on the floor, Mum gasping in surprise. "Where are you going," she breathes, standing up right after Porco, as he stomps to the entrance, grabbing his boots to put them back on.

"Porco," she begs, "it's almost curfew, you can't-"

"I need to see someone," he cuts to the chase, not even bothering with the jacket, he's not that cold anyway, "I'll be back in a bit."

Porco doesn't hear whatever Mum has to say, because he's out in the blink of an eye, no one in sight, streetlamps paving the way as he walks, faster and faster, then runs, down a path he now knows by heart- it beats fast, leads the way, marks his footsteps, and he doesn't care about a single thing that is not his destination.

He knocks at the door, short of breath, a thin layer of sweat that glues his shirt to his back- it's cold, the evening wind bites at his forearms, but he grits his teeth, he wills away the texture of crystal and shattered bones on his tongue, he can do it, he can.

It's Karina Braun who opens the door, and her eyes widen in surprise at seeing him in this state, panting, right outside their house. It’s uncanny: it’s like seeing her son's look of disbelief, back when he was a small boy, and Porco secretly finds it endearing. “Porco, good evening,” she greets, though there’s no hint of a smile on her face as she adds, “did something happen?”

“Reiner,” he gasps, almost chokes, and oh: the way his name rolls off his tongue, like this, out in the open, almost brings tears to his eyes. “I need to talk to him, please. And- good evening, sorry, I…”

“I see, I see,” she nods, her head tilting forwards just slightly, so she can cast quick glances to both sides, as if someone could be listening in. “Come in, now, you don’t want to catch a cold, do you?”

“Thank you,” murmurs Porco, stepping in and wiping his boots on the carpet there, Karina taking her sweet time making sure that no one could see what just happened. When he turns around, she’s still got the wide-eyed look that’s typical of her, her son, and her little niece, when faced with the unknown.

“It’s nothing. Reiner just went to bed, but I don’t think he’s asleep yet,” she explains, leading him to his bedroom, even if Porco knows the way already: her steps are slow, labored, as if she were buying as much time as possible. “Is it about the mission?”

No point in lying. “No, no… I need to tell him something before I leave.”

That last word takes almost everything out of him: Porco bites his lip, hard, trying to slow down his increasingly heavy breathing so that she won’t notice. There’s no visible reaction as Porco stares at the back of her head, though he knows- Karina Braun is a very expressive woman, more with her face than her words, and her son is pretty much the same under all the layers of armor he wears at all times.

“I see,” she repeats, like a few minutes before, “just make sure you’re able to go back home before curfew, you do need to rest before a mission, don’t you?”

When she turns around to go back to the living room, Porco sees the look in her eye, and he doesn’t like it one bit. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, still wide, still searching. Studying.

“Yeah, I will,” he nods, and she mirrors him, leaving Porco alone in front of the door of Reiner’s bedroom.

He waits until she’s disappeared before knocking, but his fist never meets the door, because it cracks open, and there he is- Porco pushes the door open all the way with both hands, almost barging in, Reiner grunts but steps back anyway, their hands one on the other as they both close it, as quietly as they can, their lips almost colliding as Porco's back is pressed up against the door, and it clicks, closed, Reiner turning the key to lock themselves in.

"I've gone mad," whispers Porco, Reiner's hand tightening around his own, eyes wide, searching- he's so, so beautiful, it takes Porco's breath away. "So don't ask me why I came here, cos I don't have a sodding clue."

"You keep doing this," breathes Reiner, Porco's eyelashes fluttering at how deep his voice resonates in his body, clinging to his bones, pumping blood in his heart, "you keep coming back."

"I know."

Their lips are so close that Porco can taste the heat of Reiner's mouth in his own.

"Galliard-"

"I've got a fucking name, you know," he grunts, letting go of Reiner's hand to grab the collar of his shirt, "if you've got to ruin me completely then do it like you mean it."

Reiner tilts his head to the side, slightly, their noses brushing, their lips impossibly closer now. "You want me to?"

"You've been ruining my life ever since I met you," recites Porco, Reiner's eyes widening- words they both remember, an echo from a distant time, and his heart beats faster than ever, "just take everything you want from me," he adds, fingers trembling as he lets go of Reiner's shirt, brushing against the sides of his neck, "and fucking make sure there's nothing left for anyone else."

A growl, from deep in his throat, then Reiner is kissing him, the back of Porco's head hitting the door.

They both know they’ve got to be quiet, the walls are thin- words that are engraved in the back of their minds; Reiner cups Porco’s face with both hands, the tips of his long fingers brushing against his earlobes, Porco’s own palms tracing Reiner’s strong jawline, reaching all the way to the back of his head to stroke the shorter hair there until the skin feels numb to the touch.

It’s a very long kiss, sharp breathing working its way in and out of their noses, and when they part it’s with an obscene, wet sound of lips smacking and sliding that has Porco in shambles already.

“Reiner,” he gasps, kissing him, cupping his face, his cheeks, squeezing his eyes shut to the point of pain: Porco can feel Reiner starting to shiver under his touch, just barely, a warning- then he shakes all over, no sign of stopping, his own trembling hands grasping at Porco’s shoulders as he kisses him back just as hard as Porco is kissing him.

The last time they both called each other by first name was… Porco can’t remember, to be honest. He knows they were still young, though: back when they could smile to each other, laugh together, have fun. Offer an apple to the other to make sure he’s eating well.

Porco's eyelids crack open just barely, so he can see Reiner's brows furrowed as he keeps kissing him, desperate, wanting; oh, he would die for him, he would die to relive all of this from day one. The pain, the frustration, the loss… everything, because he’s never felt like this before, his whole body tingling, trying to catch on fire spontaneously.

Reiner catches fire, too, the amber of his guarded eyes melting into a darker, richer gold as he gazes down at him, and he murmurs, a breath away from his lips, “Porco,” and there it is- he loses it completely.

He wants to say it, but the words won’t come out, so he kisses Reiner harder, pushing him back, away from the door. As Reiner melts under his kisses, his touches, his soft, quiet gasps that raise goosebumps on his skin, Porco grabs the front of his shirt and tugs, growling as his palms slide across the fabric to start unbuttoning it.

“Off,” he grunts, “take it off,” their fingers working in tandem to open it, and they look down, mouth to mouth, breathing into each other. As soon as they’re done, Porco pushes the fabric away, palms sliding all over the newly exposed skin, fingers trembling as he runs them up his chest, the muscle there softer than he imagined, a slight blush spreading as Reiner starts breathing faster.

They resume kissing right after that, Reiner's weight overwhelming him, Porco balancing himself on his heels to avoid slamming back into the door: he grabs Reiner's narrow waist, his skin warm under his open shirt, and forces him to step backwards until he bumps into the desk, Porco holding onto him for dear life, and it's absolutely maddening how good this all feels, how much Porco likes this, having this much control over someone like Reiner, so elusive, guarded, and how he wanted to run away from him until that same morning- what changed? Not like he cares now, licking into Reiner's mouth, egged on by his soft groans.

He has to stop when Reiner starts tugging insistently at his shirt: he lifts it up for Porco, removing it completely and throwing it aside just so he can stare openly, eyelids heavy, lips parted, and he says nothing at all. Porco's about to offer one of his snide remarks of choice when he freezes in place, breath hitching in his throat, as Reiner's hands cup his shoulders and start sliding down his arms.

There's a tad more pressure in his fingertips as he grabs his biceps, then it's all soft and barely-there touches down his forearms, knuckles brushing against the back of his hands- suddenly, Reiner's hands run up his waist, palms skating across his ribs and stomach, and Porco gasps when Reiner bends down, kissing his chest right where his heart is.

"What are you doing," he blurts out, swallowing immediately after because his throat is so dry it hurts, but Reiner doesn't answer: he kisses a path up to Porco's collarbones, then his neck, and he instinctively cranes his head to the side, shivering under Reiner's much more experienced touches.

No answer, again, as Reiner cups Porco's cheek with one hand, rising to kiss the opposite one, softly, then proceeding to nuzzle up against him, breathing heavily right in his ear, their bodies pressed up together.

Just now, Porco sees how hard Reiner is shivering. He's doing the same, he realizes shortly after.

"Hey," breathes Reiner, moving away from the side of his face to look him in the eye- he's about to cry, isn't he? Then why does he look so worried all of a sudden, what's his problem? "What's the matter?"

He doesn't get it, at first- then he feels tears spilling out of his eyes, biting down his flushed cheeks.

And he crumbles.

Reiner holds him tightly in his arms, though he's shaking all over just as hard. It's not long before Porco gives in- he cries his heart out, really, there's no other way to put it. He's making a mess on Reiner's chest, it's all tears and snot and broken gasps, but he doesn't mind, does he? No, he can take it. He can take everything.

Eventually, Porco manages to get it out- “you fucking hypocrite,” he sobs, clinging to his shoulders so he won’t fall on unsteady knees.

Reiner’s eyelashes, he wants to see them- he's probably blinking right now, and Porco’s heart sinks, because he needs to look up at him and he can't, he's shaking too hard, his lungs are aching all over. “What do you mean,” he murmurs, his arms enveloping Porco's shoulders, hugging him closer to his body, warm and solid and alive.

“It's all your fault,” sobs Porco, again, his throat ablaze in protest, face all scrunched up, “you ruined everything.”

He’s so strong, really. Reiner doesn’t even flinch, he can take it, just like he asked: and he takes it so, so well. It’s beyond words, now. “It’s my fault, yes,” he concludes, calm and collected, but his voice breaks for a split second, and now Porco can see when it happens. Now he knows him.

“Fuck you,” continues Porco, ribcage shaking as he breathes faster, and faster, “I hate you so, so much you can’t even imagine- you fucking dick…”

Now Reiner scoffs, though it’s weak, and he’s not having fun clearly, because he says nothing more after that. He just holds the back of Porco's head now, running his fingers on the short hair there. “Get it all out, then,” he sighs eventually, and Porco can almost see the bitter, though proper smile that's probably pulling at his lips.

His face scrunches up even more, loud sobs sounding more and more like pathetic little whimpers. Porco stops himself before it's too late, before those words can get out.

“I can't,” he blurts out, his eyes wide, heartbeat slowing down as soon as he closes his lips. The bubble in his throat appears to feel smaller than before, now.

“Just say it,” insists Reiner, still holding him, still shivering, still reassuring and alive, his voice reverberating down Porco's throat, filling him with indescribable warmth. “I can take it, whatever it is.”

“I know,” is what Porco says, his eyes shut, though they slide open after a while. He's a mess.

The words are there, on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill out with burning honesty- and they sound so weird, too grand, too heavy, all the wrong things he can think of. A bombshell ready to blow up in his hands, taking Reiner down with him- no, no, no. No way in hell.

“…when we’ll see each other again,” he croaks, hiding his face in the crook of Reiner’s neck, inhaling the smell of his skin there and melting against him, “I’ll tell you then. I can’t do it now.”

Reiner kisses the top of Porco’s head: he sniffs, tears glueing his eyelashes to Reiner’s skin now, ragged breathing bursting out of his mouth as he tries to calm down.

“Of course,” concedes Reiner, holding him in his arms until Porco calms down, and it's the soothing rhythm of Reiner's beating heart that makes him close his eyes.

Love looks ugly on him, he's always suspected it would.


	16. 16 - so i throw the windows wide and call to you across the sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been dreading this moment for weeks not gonna lie  
> it all started back in october when i came up with a silly little re-imagining of the hospital scene, and now we're here. i feel like i'm being a bit too emotional over a fic lmao but it is a part of me after all, so it hurts to see it go  
> i want to thank all of you for your support, the love, the anticipation, for sharing this little adventure with me. i'm so grateful and i hope you'll enjoy it to the very end.
> 
> see you soon <3

"So this is it," scoffed Ymir, but she wasn't laughing. Being there on that specific wall was just making her feel nauseous.

Bertolt hung his head while standing there beside her, a quiet yet comforting presence. She appreciated it, and made sure to let him know, patting his shoulder with a trembling hand as she stood on her tiptoes. "Oi, what's the long face for."

"I know I've asked this many times already," he murmured, "but... are you-"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure," interjected Ymir then, hiding her constant shivering while crossing her arms, both Bertolt and Reiner's gaze lingering on her too-wide smirk, "don't ask me again or I'll change my mind for good, and then what."

Before Bertolt could add anything, Reiner walked up to her: he started to lift his hands, but then stopped himself, arms returning limp at his sides. Of course, Ymir noticed.

"You wanted to go for a hug? Don't get sentimental."

Reiner averted his eyes then, (Porco finds himself absolutely entranced by this particular memory, how this Reiner, at this moment in time, looked like the perfect echo of the current one), "I'm sorry it had to come to this."

His voice sounded so broken that Ymir had to avert her eyes, too- she spotted the familiar outline of a ship in the distance, and her heart immediately sank down to the bottom of her stomach. "Shit happens."

A slight scoff. "Yeah."

"Just... remember our promise," blurted out Ymir then, crossing her arms even tighter, "I don't care about anything else. Just give that letter to Christa no matter what it takes, got it?"

No answer, and Ymir didn't even dare turn around in case they saw her eyes, filled with tears, so she tried again, "oi, I'm talking to you, Reiner."

It's still dark outside, and Porco's lips are parted as he wakes up.

He's been sleeptalking, that's a given: he clears his throat to no avail as he goes through a stiffer than usual morning routine, not bothering too much with his hair, distaste and anxiety pulling at his skin, mouth sealed tight.

No point in having breakfast at this hour, he's not even hungry: no big deal, nothing will happen if he skips a meal for once. The only thing he does in the kitchen is pour himself a glass of water and drink it slowly, not to upset his stomach too much.

As Porco puts the glass down in the sink, so that Mum will wash it later, he thinks- is Reiner still asleep? Is he awake? Did he have nightmares again? He plays with the thought of going over and waking him up, Porco allows it to pull his lips into a small smile, and it warms his heart, his stomach stretches, his lips tingle- a faint memory, all their kisses from the night before, Reiner's arms around him, the words he wanted to tell him but couldn't.

Before his thoughts can weigh him down, before the unavoidable fall that would surely follow, Porco gets his boots on and walks to the door, his hand reaching for the cigarettes in his pocket- then, he freezes.

He mulls it over for quite a bit, wondering if he's not running late: before he can think too much and tire himself out this early in the morning, he grabs both the lighter and the cigarettes and leaves them on the table, biting down his lower lip on the way out.

This is supposedly what Marcel saw, all those years ago: except the harbour was intact, full of people sending him and the others off, tears of gratitude and pride and recognition filling the whole of Liberio’s eyes. Now there’s almost nothing left, a gathering of wrecked ships and mangled buildings, the dead of night, and the barely noticeable silhouette of General Magath as he observes the boat strolling away, slowly, leisurely, towards Paradis.

The trip to the island takes a little under an hour, Pieck leaving Porco to his own devices for most of it: at first she tries to make some conversation, though Porco’s nothing short of an open book to her at this point, so it doesn’t surprise him in the least when she keeps to herself, too, resigned to deal with her own thoughts in silence.

Eventually, guilt creeps up on Porco, and he clears his throat before trying to approach her: she’s always been there for him when he needed it, it only stands to reason that he has to give her some comfort, too. “How are you doing?”

Pieck purses her lips, gaze unreadable: the best part of talking to her is that she picks up on Porco’s true intentions without needing him to lay everything down on the table. “Better, I think. It helps that we’re almost there, finally.”

“Yeah,” nods Porco, though he definitely couldn’t say the same. It hurts to even think about what happened last night: the memory of it still floods his mouth with bitterness, a bad aftertaste that just won’t go away.

It’s weakness, he reasons, as they step off the boat and pull up their hoods, heavy winter coats paired with boots to shield them from the cold: it’s a Marleyan officer who sends them off, giving them quick instructions on their contact, who they’re supposed to meet in the closest village to the east. Pieck nods and grabs the approximative map the officer hands to her, Porco tries to stop his teeth from chattering too loud, and when they walk away towards their destination a different kind of silence falls between them.

It's Pieck who breaks it first after an indefinite amount of time, talking over the rhythmic crunching of their boots on the snow. "It's been a while since I went on a stealth mission."

Porco hums, rubbing the bridge of his cold nose with a gloved hand.

"Talking helps with warming up, did you know?" she tries again a few minutes later, "even though I'm not really feeling like it... we should give it a shot."

"Let's try then," blurts out Porco, breath puffed out of his lips like cigarette smoke. "How much longer before we get to the village?"

"I don't really know," offers Pieck, honesty above all else. "According to the map we should've spotted it already."

"Nice job."

"I know," snorts Pieck, "but you're just following orders, aren't you? You should try to take some initiative once in a while."

Porco rolls his eyes, cold air hitting his face that much harder. "Stop playing mum. The faster we get to the walls the better."

They keep treading through the snow in silence, Porco following Pieck's lead like a mindless little soldier, until they spot the telltale scattered lights of lanterns gathered at the base of a cliff, shielded by possible avalanches. Descending is a slow process, but they make it before nightfall, thoroughly exhausted and with their coats drenched in freezing sweat.

Nobody asks questions when they step inside the inn, but a lone man sitting at the table in the corner does perk up. Porco sucks his cheeks in, hoping that their coats aren't going to look too much out of place, following Pieck to the counter as she asks for an available room, all while trying to mask her accent.

The innkeeper seems to be kinda out of it: he doesn't answer, not really, shrugging at her words and turning around, ever so slowly, to reach for his stash of keys. Pieck rewards him with a kind smile as she grabs the key from him, taking exceptional care in not touching the man's hand: a grunt follows, their room's number spoken like an afterthought, the innkeeper's eyes unfocused already as he huffs, draping an old, dirty-looking rag over the counter and cleaning it, or at least trying to.

Porco almost lets out a snort and follows Pieck to the stairs, melted snow under their boots causing them to squelch unnecessarily loud, filling the unsettling silence of the inn. They prepare for the night without saying anything to each other, Porco furrowing his brows at the bare necessities they're given: nothing seems to have changed in four years, the description of their commodities pretty much identical to what was written in Reiner's report.

He decides against commenting on it out loud: for all they know someone could be spying on them, and Pieck must be thinking the same as she sheds her coat, tying her hair up before rearranging the sheets on the bed so it looks less like a rectangular crate covered with old rags.

Dinner wasn't even considered: Porco doesn't care that much, his stomach still shriveled up thanks to the lingering anxiety he's been feeling ever since morning. He slips into bed with a grimace, trying not to wonder when was the last time someone ever washed these sheets: against all predictions, then, exhaustion catches up to him, and he allows a yawn to scatter his thoughts out of place.

He's about to fall asleep when Pieck's soft mumbling startles him. "How did it go, then?"

"What do you mean," he croaks, shivering under the thin sheets that try to shield him from the cold.

"I'm just guessing," offers Pieck, "but you did have a talk with Reiner after what happened, didn't you?"

There it is. Porco's breath is pushed out of his nostrils with irritation, he can't help it. "It doesn't have anything to do with you."

He can hear a sudden, constant rustling of sheets from his left, but he doesn't know what Pieck is doing exactly: Porco keeps his eyes closed, he can't be bothered. He just wishes he could fall asleep right here and now.

"You're so irritating," she hisses eventually, sheets still rustling with no sign of stopping, much to Porco's distaste, "I wanted to have a normal conversation while we still can. Take our mind off things, if you will."

"I don't need that."

"Well, I do," spits Pieck, louder this time, and the rustling stops. "I don't know what went down between you and Reiner after the attack, but I hope you weren't this much of a _dick_ to him as you're being now."

Porco's eyes snap open at that word: he inhales, sharply, then sits up in bed ever so slowly despite the cold, teeth chattering. He can only make out a barely visible lump under the covers, to his left, and nothing else. It's very dark in here.

"Pieck?" he asks, his voice hesitant, no hostility to be found in it. She doesn't answer.

Porco is alone when he wakes up: his eyelids appear to be glued together, and he rubs insistently at his eyes while stretching his legs. He dresses quickly, dawn bathing the room in unsettling colors that Porco never saw before: he spies out the window and his eyes widen at the view, snow-covered cliffs glowing under the faint sun of the morning. He's never seen anything quite like it.

Pieck must be downstairs already with their contact, he gathers. Porco tears himself away from the window, trying to comb his hair back the best he can, and leaves the room with his coat in hand. He spots her immediately, sitting at the table in the corner with the same man who noticed them the night before: Pieck turns her head just barely, and pushes the empty chair near her away from the table, signaling to Porco that he can sit with them.

"Galliard," grunts the man, Porco's eyebrows shooting up, but he lifts his chin anyway, flopping down on the chair. He looks nothing like an experienced undercover agent, more like an old tired man who spends his evenings playing cards at the pub. "Glad you could make it in one piece."

"No time to waste," sighs Porco, Pieck scoffing under her breath, "tell us everything. The sooner we get there, the better."

His words have no impact whatsoever on the man: he shifts forward, resting both forearms on the table as he starts explaining, his voice a tad lower than before. "Reaching Wall Maria will take you roughly two days on horseback. No horses to be found here on the mountains, so you'll have to _manage_."

Pieck nods, Porco mirroring her: before he can speak out, though, the man precedes him. "The Garrison's composed of pretty much good-for-nothings all around, lately. No one scouts the walls anymore. The only place kept under tight surveillance is the south of the island, where the docks are."

"So the walls are safe," confirms Pieck, the man nodding, just once, just barely.

"Wall Rose is safest, it's never been breached," he sighs, Porco taken aback by his tone, "Utopia District is the first one you'll come across inside it, after getting in from the northernmost one. Be careful not to tire your horses out too much when proceeding east, towards Krolva, then south until you reach Trost."

Porco hopes that Pieck's memory will be enough for both of them, because he can't remember any of these unfamiliar names already. "Our other contact is in Trost then?"

The man nods. "He'll show you the way to your destination, Shiganshina," he inches closer, his words a whisper, now, "the district that was attacked nine years ago."

That is a name Porco remembers very well, Shiganshina. He'd heard Reiner say it out loud once, his face impossibly pale at the mere mention of it.

"Thank you," murmurs Pieck, getting up from her chair and putting her coat on, Porco following suit in silence.

It's not as cold as yesterday: the sun is lazily crawling up the sky, Pieck taking a long look at the nearby trees right outside the inn before leaving for good. Porco keeps up the pace with no effort, though it's clear after a few minutes that she's tired, a lone drop of sweat trickling down the side of her face, a strand of hair glued to her cheek.

"I think we're far enough now," he blurts out then, feeling awkward for speaking out after so many hours of stilted silence between them, "we can take a break before you turn."

To his surprise, Pieck sounds completely normal as she answers, "I can manage, the farther we get from the village the better. We can't blow this chance."

Porco nods, then hums, remembering that she's not looking at him and can't see his nonverbal answer. No way he can hold it in, though: "are you mad at me for last night?"

Now, Pieck scoffs, but her features soften. She even slows down a bit. "It's like dealing with a child. No, I'm not mad, Pokko."

"Stop that," he says, clicking his tongue. "You said it yourself, didn't you? That I was being a dick."

"Yeah, you were," nods Pieck almost immediately, "but I'm not getting mad over it. It's not always this or that, thought you'd learnt it by now."

Normally, Porco would answer with a scoff, or he'd say, _what_ , to force more explanations out of her: but now he just lets those words sink in, following Pieck's lead as they walk in the general direction of the walls.

The only thing on which he managed to find a middle ground was _Reiner_ , and it took him literal years, if not most of his life. She's definitely got a point, so he shuts up, and he knows it's for the better this time around.

Pieck shifts when snow disappears from under their boots, replaced by barren soil, wild spots of grass marking it here and there. Porco hops on the Cart Titan's back and, as soon as he's gotten hold of its hair, it starts running at breakneck speed: not long before Porco can see the wall emerging from the horizon.

"We're almost there," he announces, his voice lost to the breeze as the Cart keeps going, sparse trees coming into view. They stop at the biggest one they can find, Pieck emerging from the Cart as Porco hops off, both of them sitting at the base of the tree to catch their breath.

Porco sighs as the Cart's body starts evaporating, the smell of steam and vanishing flesh reminding him of Reiner for some reason. Oh, who is he kidding, everything around here reminds him of Reiner. He wonders if he'd been here during his four years, if he ever went to Utopia District, or Trost.

"Let's wait until it's completely vanished," pipes up Pieck, her voice interrupting Porco's daydreaming, "then we can get to the main gate without being noticed."

"Yeah, about that. What if they ask us how we got there? We don't have horses."

Pieck smiles more to herself than at Porco. "While you were busy playing sleeping beauty, our contact told me all we needed to know about the nearest village. It's not far from here, they don't have horses, and people from there regularly come in and out of that district on a weekly basis. We're covered."

Despite Pieck's confident tone, Porco can't help but purse his lips. "How are they going to trust us, though? They could just ask around the village and confirm that nobody ever saw us-"

"Porco," interjects Pieck, "just remember that nine years ago three teenagers managed to sneak in, all while knowing literally nothing of bureaucracy and such."

He can't help it- Porco imagines little potato-shaped Reiner holding a bunch of papers, explaining to a very unimpressed Annie and an equally worried Bertolt that yes, this is going to be perfect, no one's going to rat them out. He almost snorts out loud.

"Alright," he concedes then, "if things get ugly we'll just kill everyone in sight I guess."

Pieck chuckles at that. "That's more like it. Are my marks gone?"

"Yeah."

"Then we can get going. The Cart's mostly vanished anyway."

Turns out that this 'district' is nothing more than customs, at least that's how it'd be called back in Marley. Houses are old and run-down, sparse, streets empty save for a few patrolling guards. Porco spots two roses on their backs, and he squints at the unfamiliar emblem.

"Garrison," explains Pieck under their breath, as they get closer to the gate that leads to the inner fields of Wall Maria, Porco barely nodding. Both of the guards nod at Pieck's curt explanation of 'family business' as the purpose of their visit, one of them humming approvingly at her appearance, Porco's nostrils flaring as he notices.

Once they get past the gate, Pieck giggles quietly. "What was that?"

"Didn't you see how that guard looked at you?" spits Porco, his voice rising the more he talks, though Pieck does nothing to stop him. "He was salivating. Fucking dick."

"You did that too, back in the day," she points out airily, then, Porco's eyebrows shooting up at her words. "And you were just as disgusting."

"I wasn't- I didn't even mean it, like, for real."

"You still did," shoots back Pieck, though she sounds entertained more than annoyed. "Glad to know you weren't serious about it."

This is all sorts of embarrassing: Porco looks away from her, feeling sickened by himself. "Sorry I guess."

"It's in the past," she sighs, "and I'm sure you aren't being _this_ disgusting to the one you like now."

It's a flash- Porco pushing down on his groin as he inhales Reiner's scent, all pressed up against his backside, and he swallows loudly. "No," he grunts then, hoping that Pieck will drop it before things get too personal. She does get the last giggle, though, much to Porco's embarrassment.

They stop right outside the main gate to rent two horses: thankfully the money they were given from their contact is more than enough, and they're able to get some needed food as well. Even though it's been a while since Porco last rode a horse they manage to cut their trip that much shorter with little effort: no way they can risk resorting to their Titans while inside the walls.

The whole way from Utopia to the south has Porco wonder to himself if Reiner's ever been to these places. He thinks he did, at some point: if what little he's seen of Ymir's time as a cadet is of any indication, they were sent on quite the number of expeditions for odd jobs and such: perhaps it's not that different from being a warrior candidate, filling the holes here and there and waiting for your turn to come- if you don't die first, of course.

Right, right- the grass is greener, the water is clean, the air light and pleasant with no trace of pollution, but life was bleak even for the devils of Paradis, once- impossible to forget that _Titans_ used to roam these same fields, once.

"You've turned into quite the overthinker," points out Pieck later that evening as they rest around a small fire, trying to eat enough to calm the rumbling of their stomachs but still leaving some food to make it to Trost. "I could use some company right now."

Porco is about to answer, but something catches his attention- the fire, perhaps? Just by looking at it he feels nauseous. Maybe they got stale bread after all: he places the slice back down on the wrapping, together with tomorrow's rations, just in case his stomach tries to play nasty games on him. "Probably," he shrugs, and he knows that Pieck's noticed how insistently he's staring at the flames as they dance quietly, his eyes wide.

Something's not right. His throat starts closing up, gaze never leaving the fire: it feels like someone's missing, like there should be other people sitting around it with them now.

He doesn't like it one bit.

"Porco?" tries Pieck then, quietly. "Are you alright?"

A name forms in the depths of his throat, and is pushed up until it splashes on his tongue like bile, starts to force its way out- _Reiner_ \- and suddenly he's faced with a much younger version of him, a flash, barely there, but he saw him, the amber of his iris glowing in the colour of gold, Porco opens his mouth to say something else-

And it's all gone, just like that, in the blink of an eye: the only remnant of it is Porco's heartbeat still out of control.

There's no mistaking it: this was Marcel. His memories.

"Porco?"

"It's nothing," he croaks, reaching for his water bottle to keep his hands occupied. "It's... nothing, really. Memories."

"Ymir's?"

He's shaking all over. "...yeah."

Pieck nods, and she hugs her knees to her chest. "They're getting more frequent lately, aren't they."

"They are," he confirms, suppressing a shiver before gulping down way too much water way too fast.

He wakes up first in the morning, feeling a longing kind of warmth filling his body: sure, he's shivering under his coat as he sits up, but he can feel the hint of a smile on his lips so it's all good.

Porco keeps smiling to himself as he recalls what he dreamed about- Reiner's voice, a low, pleasant rumble that fills his ears, and in the dream he was holding him close, whispering sweet nothings into his skin. Words he can't recall, of course, but it hardly matters.

He misses him. It's not even the superficial things like kisses and whatever comes with it: he misses how he could let everything out, no matter if positive or negative, on him. Right now he's all on his own, Marcel and Reiner battling it out to be the first thought that comes to his mind.

It gets tiring, it truly does, especially when they stop at Krolva to get some more food with what little money they've got left, and all Porco can see is the abundance of pears everywhere he turns.

"Hey, missy," calls out a merchant then, catching Pieck's attention with a wave. "You interested in fruit? I've got the best variety around."

Porco furrows his eyebrows at that, especially as Pieck gives him a warm smile and steps towards the man's stall, taking a genuine long look at all the fruit there. It does look fresh and juicy, Porco has to admit it.

"There's a lot!" she gasps then, over-exaggerating her surprise so that the merchant chuckles bashfully. Porco has to look away, biting his lip: it always works. It's like seeing the former panzer squad all over again.

"Only the best of the best," confirms the merchant, grabbing a pear to show it properly, turning it around in his hand as if he himself wanted to make sure there's no bruises. "And we all owe it to Eren Jaeger!"

Porco side-eyes him then, noticing how Pieck's cocked her head to the side at those words, too. "I suppose so," she giggles then, indulging him while trying not to sound suspicious. "I'd love to get some fruit to honor him, but we're a bit short on money..."

"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't mind!" snorts the merchant as he grabs a paper bag and starts shoving handfuls of pears in it, "it's on me! Everything is for the sake of Eldia after all!"

Pieck is way quicker at answering, giggling sweetly as she nods, "it truly is," taking the paper bag from the merchant: Porco just scoffs to himself and waits until they're well out of the merchant's hearing range before speaking his mind.

"Feels like home, doesn't it," he grumbles, eyeing the contents of the paper bag, "people celebrating a victory they don't even really care about. Very nostalgic."

"Small world is what they say," shoots back Pieck, her saccharine smile still in place though her voice cuts deep, "and the world of these people is so minuscule it scares me."

Instead of expressing his agreement to Pieck's words, Porco gets distracted by a fleeting, sudden thought- how did Reiner, Bertolt and Annie feel hearing this kind of talk? All these years, meddling with their supposed enemies, having to shove it all aside and put on a pleasant smile?

Did Reiner walk these streets, too, back when he was a cadet?

Did he ever think of Marcel?

"It is scary," he says eventually, the paper bag rustling as Pieck's hand dives into it to grab a pear.

Later that night, camping under a tree, the walls of Trost district on the horizon, Porco feels his heart shrink more and more by the second: they're almost there. It's like the closer they get to their goal, the harder it hits him- the harder it is to describe how he feels, even to himself.

He hasn't confided in Pieck for months, by now. Their bond grew into a distant kind of friendship, the one where you don't necessarily have to see each other all the time, and Porco wonders if this is what would have happened with Marcel as well, had he survived.

Oh, he can't help it: "I've been feeling weird lately," he confesses, out of the blue, right as Pieck starts tying up her hair. She freezes, glancing at him, then resumes what she was doing with slower movements, as if she were studying him.

"How so?" she asks, never taking her gaze away from him.

"Maybe it's because we've been here for a while," he suggests, crossing his legs as he sits back on the ground, "but all I can think of is my brother."

And Reiner, but that goes unspoken- though Pieck gets it anyway.

"What about Reiner," she asks then, "and Gabi, Falco... Zeke. What about them."

 _What about the living,_ is what Pieck is trying to say, and Porco isn't stupid. He scoffs, a tired smile pulling at his lips as he explains himself, "yeah, I get what you're saying. I think about them, too."

She clicks her tongue. "Then you're a liar."

"I am," he shoots back, taking it well: so much that Pieck's eyebrows rise in disbelief. "I've been lying to myself for years anyway, must mean I was pretty fucking good at it."

"How did you lie, though," she inquiries, cocking her head, "are we still talking about Marcel?"

Porco shakes his head, slowly, cheeks freed from the tension of the smile he was wearing just a few seconds before. "You know who we're talking about."

At his words, Pieck hides her face behind her crossed arms, resting on her knees. Her words are kinda muffled as they come out, her tone tentative, guarded: "tell me how you feel, then."

Truth be told, Porco doesn't even know where to start: the only thing that comes to mind is Reiner standing in front of the statue of Helos, looking into his eyes, all those years ago.

His heart skips a beat, like it always does with that particular memory.

"Well," he sighs, tasting the words on his tongue before letting them out, "like I threw away so many years of my life, doing what? Feeling bad and angry, that's it."

Pieck shrugs. "It makes sense."

"No, not now, it really doesn't," he objects, stretching his legs to avoid them getting numb, "what was the point of all _that_ if now I'm feeling like some sort of, I dunno, a fucking teenage boy with a crush?"

His example does kinda suck, but Pieck isn't laughing: she's wearing a bitter smirk on her face, one that doesn't suit her, and that Porco doesn't remember ever seeing on her. It reminds him of Zeke, for some reason- that's an expression he'd definitely make.

"It's what we were given from the start," she murmurs, turning her head so she can gaze at the fire, "too little time to deal with too much of everything. There's your explanation."

Porco thinks back on their discussion after one of General Magath's briefings. "So this explains whatever you've got going on with Zeke, too?"

If possible, Pieck's smile grows even more bitter. "No, you got it all wrong, Porco."

"What do you mean."

"I don't feel like _that_ towards him," she confesses, now turning back towards Porco to face him, "it's very complicated. I can't explain it anyway, let's just drop it."

Porco's always thought of Pieck as very perceptive, smart, rational- but now, as he glances at her curling up on her side for the night, tugging her coat over her whole head, he thinks that even her of all people can make such a blunder every now and then.

He drifts in and out of sleep, a continuous cycle that has him toss and turn on the ground, under his worn coat.

All he can think of is those kisses- Reiner's lips popping open against his own, the depth of his voice, his half-lidded eyes sliding shut as they deepen the kiss, his thick eyelashes, the way his cheeks are stained in the most delicious shade of red as he blushes, Porco's hands reaching wherever they can touch.

 _Porco_ , he keeps hearing in his head, spoken with Reiner's deep voice, _Porco_ , he didn't miss how heavily he was breathing, how much reverence and affection he put into that single word, that name he last spoke out loud so many years ago. _Porco_.

He misses him so, so much, he has to curl up tighter to stop his teeth from chattering any harder.

It's their contact who finds them first, way before they even get close to the main gate of Trost: Pieck notices him, steering her horse so it follows the hooded man, Porco imitating her immediately.

He brings them to the outskirts of the nearest village, most of its houses run-down, and slams open the door of the first one he can get to: Pieck hops off her horse with expertise, Porco securing their reins on the nearby fence so they won't run off, and follows them inside. The man is emptying the contents of a rather big burlap bag on a dusty table, a pair of dark green coats and worn down boots falling out of it.

"There's no time," he explains in a gruff voice, pushing the uniforms towards them, "put them on, I'll give you the permits, don't get anywhere near Trost. They found me out, or at least they're about to; you've got a few hours left at most."

Porco swears quietly, Pieck grabbing the permits their contact is handing her. "So we're going straight to Shiganshina. Anything we need to know?"

The man nods, head darting from side to side as if looking for something he can't find. "Braun and Grice escaped from prison, somehow they got to Shiganshina, I don't know the details but they're still being detained."

At those words, both Pieck and Porco relax considerably: at least they're still alive, and they know their exact location. "What about-"

"Eren Jaeger is there, too," continues the man, running from one side of the room to the other as he gathers all the chairs and wooden forniture he can find. "It's civil war, or something like it, all the high-rank officers rounded up in that specific district, it doesn't look good."

"Shit," repeats Porco, this time louder. "Where is Zeke anyway? We can't let them get close or they'll-"

"That's why they've gathered everyone in there," interjects Pieck, eyes widening more and more as she talks, "get them all in one place so they can start the Rumbling and risk no casualties."

"A part of it, probably," corrects the man, pushing the wooden counter towards the centre of the room, Porco staring at him speechless. What is he doing? "I overheard some of Eren Jaeger's lapdogs talking about the walls of Shiganshina district coming down to march towards Marley."

"What the fuck are you even _doing_ , then," seethes Porco, grabbing the man's wrist and tearing one of his hands off the furniture, "take us to Shiganshina, and fast! How are we supposed to get in?"

"I can't get you there," he barks, freeing himself from Porco's grasp, "they're tailing me! We've got no time to spare, get there by yourselves, and fast- before they activate the Rumbling! The airborne unit will be here in a matter of hours!"

"That's a relief," sighs Pieck, removing her boots to put on the worn out ones, Porco imitating her with a roll of his eyes. "Come on Porco, I'll shift and get us there, the Cart can cover much more distance than the horses anyway."

"Exactly. Now get out of here, fast!" repeats the man, digging into the pockets of his own uniform- Porco can spot it out the corner of his eye, the small box of matches he's got in hand. He's already lighting up one as they button up their coats and step outside: Porco scoots towards the horses, freeing them as fast as he can.

"What are you doing?" asks Pieck with bated breath. "Come here, you've got to hop on as soon as I shift, so-"

"Do that, then! He's going to set the house on fire!" barks back Porco, Pieck grimacing at his tone. She bites down on her finger and shifts into the Cart Titan, lowering itself so that Porco can get on as fast as possible.

He only turns around when the Cart is pretty far already: the house is enveloped in flames, Porco clicking his tongue as he looks away from it, his heart heavy.

Getting to the main gate on foot takes quite a while, Pieck's Titan marks vanishing slowly on her cheeks as they run towards it. They catch their breath while waiting in line, crumpled permits in hand, a handful of armed soldiers standing in line before them.

"We need to get in there fast," sighs Porco, out of breath, but before he can add anything he spots Pieck lifting a gun from a soldier's back, completely unnoticed as she hides it gingerly beneath her coat: then she grabs Porco by the arm, tugging him forward, a wave of protests rising as they skip the line to get to the gate guards.

"We're in a hurry!" she explains to them, shoving both her permit and Porco's in the guard's hands, "Yelena needed backup and called for our unit but we lost our horses to the fire around Trost!"

Porco tries not to furrow his brows at that name- who even is Yelena?

"Fire?" grunts the guard, eyeing Porco's hair every now and then, as if he found something odd about it. "What happened?"

"Marleyan spies," explains Pieck, Porco trying to put on his most aggravated expression, "they got one and forced them to retreat outside the district! They probably caused the fire themselves to hide their tracks! We were investigating it, that's why we had to-"

"Yeah, yeah," nods the guard, folding the permits and shoving them into the pockets of his uniform, "get in, we're sending another unit to investigate."

"Thank you," she exclaims, scooting forward, taking Porco with her: once inside, he frees himself from her grasp, clicking his tongue- then, the impossible happens.

"Fucking hell," mutters Pieck, Porco's eyes bulging out of his head at the uncharacteristic swearing, "they're going to track us down. Gotta be fast."

"What-"

"Did you look at our uniforms?" she hisses, "they're mismatched. We can't possibly be sent out on a scouting mission together if you're supposed to be part of the Garrison."

Porco blinks repeatedly as they make their way towards the biggest building on the street, where all the other soldiers are walking in, in an orderly fashion. "Fucking hell," he repeats, Pieck clicking her tongue.

"I couldn't think of anything else," she shakes her head, and before Porco can tell her that it doesn't matter anyway, she stops him: "we need to split up, if we're together it's just going to make it easier for them. Get a gun from someone so you blend in with the others, I'm granted access to the dungeons I think- I know they're keeping Gabi and Falco locked up to smoke us out."

"Alright," nods Porco, sudden anxiety crawling up his spine. "Alright. Then what-"

"Then we just wing it, the airborne unit's almost here anyway. We just need to get on the roof to give them a signal... Porco," she says, her voice authoritative, sounding more and more like General Magath, "don't mess up."

"Yeah, same to you," snorts Porco, Pieck giving him a hurried, tight-lipped smile before running off towards the building, Porco following suit. They split up right past the entrance, Porco spotting the Garrison emblem on a group of soldiers' uniforms: he walks up to one of them, tapping his shoulder so he turns around and squints at him.

"What," he huffs, Porco snorting internally at the thought of General Magath having to deal with such a sleazy cadet.

"The Marleyan children," murmurs Porco in a confidential tone, immediately catching the soldier's attention, "you know. Is one of them blond? I think I saw him run off to the bathrooms."

The soldier's eyebrows shoot up, his mouth popping open at Porco's words: he clutches the rifle in his arms much tighter, holding it close to his chest. "Let- let me call the, um-"

"No, no, no," Porco hushes him, holding him by the elbow, "let's go get the kid on our own. So we can get a promotion, maybe- it's just a kid, right?"

What a stupid piece of shit: he nods, still holding his gun close as he follows Porco's lead to one of the doors in the back of the room. Even saying that Falco is 'just a kid' really took a lot out of him- he could probably kill a dozen of those soldiers by himself. There's a slow rush of pride coursing through Porco at the thought, but it quickly turns into worry, thinking of Colt and how powerless he felt back in Liberio, with Falco and Gabi here all alone to fend for themselves.

He's going to bring Falco back to him, no matter the cost. Same goes for Gabi and Reiner, too.

"Hey," grunts the soldier as soon as they get past the door, into an old unused storage room- a classic. "This is not the bathroom."

"Right, it definitely isn't," admits Porco, the door clicking shut behind them- he manages to get the soldier swiftly into a chokehold before he can even react, Porco taking the rifle away from him to prevent it from dropping on the ground. "Bet I can get you to piss all over the floor if I choke you hard enough, though."

The soldier stops fighting after a while, flopping down on the ground like his bones turned to dust. Porco glances at the rifle, finding himself a bit unfamiliar with the odd positioning of the pistol grip, but he won't need to use it anyway: he leaves the fainted soldier in there, going back outside and positioning himself together with the rest of the small Garrison squad stationed there.

It doesn't take long before someone comes up from the underground floor, footsteps louder and closer by the second: Porco squints at the taller man leading the group, his hair tied up in a bun, he's never seen him before. Immediately behind him there's Pieck and Gabi, followed by a handful of soldiers pointing their rifles at them in case they try anything.

"Hey there!" greets Pieck in a saccharine voice, raising both her arms- Porco spots the chain at her wrist, linked to Gabi's. So that man should be Eren Jaeger, and he made sure that Pieck couldn't shift by chaining her up together with Gabi, holding her hostage in a way. _Fuckface._

Porco slips through, falling in step with the soldiers dutifully climbing the stairs to the roof: he makes sure to put his rifle on safe before leaving it on the floor, eyeing the ceiling of the room to calculate where he should strike. It won't take long anyway: all he needs is to bite down on his hand, and it starts.

The Jaw Titan's maw breaks through the ceiling with ease, fangs snapping shut right around Eren Jaeger: Porco can feel bones and flesh breaking as he chomps down, though a sideways glance confirms that the fucker managed to avoid the attack, only the lower part of his legs getting caught in the Jaw's mouth.

Eren Jaeger shifts in mid-air, Porco landing easily in front of Pieck and Gabi to shield them from the impact, the Jaw's armored claws unfazed by the bricks and rubble flying around as the Attack Titan materializes. As the smoke clears, the rumble of the Marleyan zeppelins grows louder and louder, the airborne unit right on time for once: Porco grits his teeth, the Jaw's eyes shifting from side to side as he tries to spot Reiner among the paratroopers jumping off the zeppelins and filling the Paradis sky above them.

There's no time to do that, though: the Attack Titan is ready to fight now, Porco crouching down on all fours and ready to leap forward at his throat, when Pieck calls for him, an arm outstretched towards him. He makes quick work of Pieck's wrist, effectively freeing her from being cuffed, and the Attack Titan charges at him as if trying to exploit a possible opening.

Too bad: Porco is just _that_ fucking fast. Oh, he'll show him.

The top of the building becomes their playground, the Jaw darting from tower to tower as he avoids the Attack Titan's hardened punches. Porco jumps off the roof then, trying to lead him away, right where- now he spots him- Reiner is descending, his palm probably sliced open already. He'll get a bigger advantage fighting on the ground, and Porco can make use of the buildings to get leverage and trying to find an opening on the Attack Titan's nape.

Pieck manages to get away as well, the Cart Titan carrying Gabi in her mouth as she runs away from there. Thankfully the Attack Titan follows them off the building, stepping directly in front of Reiner, who shifts in mid-air- and the comparison with a rising sun is so fitting that Porco has to look away; as soon as the Armored Titan lands, blowing steam out of its barely parted teeth, they charge at each other wasting absolutely no time.

In the span of a few seconds, Porco's ears are filled with the constant rumble of war that he knows so well: gunshots, Titans shouting, his own heartbeat pulsating all around him, amplified by the walls of the Jaw Titan's insides. He stalls right behind a clock tower, clicking his tongue at seeing the Armored's face already damaged by the Attack Titan's punches- though he's ready to leap when it charges right into the Attack Titan and slams him to the ground, leaving its nape exposed as it kicks the Armored in the face, making him backtrack: he's too taken with Reiner to notice him.

Porco keeps his senses sharp as he avoids the spikes growing out of the Attack Titan's back, gritting his teeth- _I'll make you pay for destroying my home,_ he snarls to himself, the Jaw ducking its head to slash at them, _and for making me into a sodding nutcracker doll_ ; at the same time, the Armored grabs its face and shoulders, holding it tight so that the Jaw can bite through its nape-

Again, the Warhammer power does its trick, massive pillars of hardened matter bursting from the ground and impaling both the Jaw and the Armored: Porco barely has the time to curse before hearing the distinctive whirring noise of the ODM gear, Paradis soldiers pointing their thunderspears right at them, approaching at breakneck speed.

"Fucking hell," spits Porco, turning his head sharply towards the Attack Titan: a clean shot goes right through the head, courtesy of the anti-Titan artillery mounted on the back of Pieck's Cart. Porco can see it standing on the wall, smoke fizzling out of the enormous barrel maneuvered from the inside, ready to fire another shot if needs be.

The Jaw starts biting down on the hardened pillar to free itself, the Armored doing the same with its punches, and Porco can hear several gunshots going off all at once: the snipers are covering them, thankfully, but he tries to free himself faster anyway, cos they've got no time to lose.

Porco shifts on the other side of the pillar, taking aim at the Attack Titan's nape: but before he can get too close, the Warhammer power goes off again, the Jaw avoiding all the spikes with no effort- right then, another bullet rips through the Attack Titan's head, the Armored tearing a pillar off the ground before charging at it.

Taking advantage of the Armored stabbing the Attack Titan's shoulder, and exploiting the subsequent opening when it activates the Warhammer power yet again, as Reiner defends himself effectively, Porco leaps towards him: a shout, then a sharp pain tearing through Porco's head as the Attack Titan's hardened fist collides with the side of the Jaw's skull, sending it flying backwards and crashing into the buildings.

"Fuck," gasps out loud Porco, the Jaw Titan trying to stand back up and failing: its body slams down on the ground, again, and before it can try again Porco can see flying debris hit the Armored Titan right in the face: Porco would recognise that kind of shot anywhere.

The Beast Titan's idiot face finally showed up as well, Porco gritting his teeth in frustration. His head feels numb- that was one hell of a hit, the Attack Titan probably got the Jaw's head right where he suffered a superficial hit not long before. Just his luck.

Reiner isn't done yet: the Armored stands back up again, running towards the Attack Titan, though he's taken down by another barrage of flying debris, courtesy of the Beast. The Armored's shout as it falls down makes Porco's heart beat that much faster, and the Jaw springs forward, head still healing as he charges at the Attack Titan's face- and it gets hit as well by another shot, the Beast's aim irritatingly accurate. The Jaw sinks to the ground, flesh breaking in multiple places, and it fucking hurts, Porco wasn't even done healing yet.

Another gunshot has Porco look up, sweat rolling down his forehead, and he sees the Cart's gotten the perfect shot right on the Beast Titan's nape. That kind of aim could only be General Magath's.

"Braun!"

"Galliard!"

Several soldiers run towards them, both the Jaw and the Armored craning their steaming, still healing heads to the side, "don't let Zeke and Eren Jaeger touch! If they use the power of the Founder it's all over!"

Porco clicks his tongue, trying to heal faster, though his head is still pounding and the Jaw isn't as responsive as it usually would be. The Armored is standing back up already, instead, as the soldier keeps shouting, "eat the Founder before they can come into contact with each other!"

No time to waste, as the Attack Titan is running towards the Beast's body already: Porco curses as it forces the Jaw to stand on all fours, running desperately to get there before Reiner can- his Titan is faster, he can get its legs, the most important thing is preventing them from getting anywhere near each other, it's their mission, the reason why they're here, and Porco is not going to fail.

The right side of the Jaw's head isn't done healing yet, hardened flesh still broken and falling as it lunges forward, sinking its fangs into the Attack Titan's leg: rage, frustration, all kinds of emotions are let out by Porco with a scream as he breaks the Attack Titan's bones to dust, blood spurting all over, and he's about to hold onto him to make sure the Armored can get an opening when it all goes dark in the blink of an eye, blood fills his ears, his right eye turns back into his orbit- not the Jaw's.

Porco's head is cracked open, he's pretty sure that's just what happened. The Jaw lies on the ground, limp, unresponsive. Blood trickles down his chin, Porco's chin, not the Jaw's, no... he doesn't think so, at least. Hard to tell at this point.

Gunshots, heavy footsteps, the Attack Titan shouting, something, someone, slamming it on the ground probably, then punches, again, hardened flesh colliding with other hardened flesh, it's all happening right in front of him, but he can't see. He's struggling to keep his eyes open.

His eye. The right one doesn't seem to be there in his skull anymore. Steam comes out of his head, sure, but it's so slow, it's not like before. It's way too slow.

Porco tries to swallow, but blood gargles back up his throat, splashes out of his nose, he retches- it's insane, it's not the first time he's suffered from this kind of wound, but he's not healing as fast as usual. His neck is tingling, now, it's weird. It's scary.

But he has to get up, he has to- they're almost there, they shot the Beast, he's pretty sure Reiner's cornered the Attack Titan now, and the only way they can get Eren Jaeger out of its nape is with the Jaw. He can't stop here, not now, not when everyone needs him the most.

"Up," mumbles Porco, tongue heavy in his mouth, lungs rattling as he tries to control his ragged breathing. "Up, up, up," he chants, grimacing, more steam coming out of his head, "fucking stand-" he coughs blood, again, "up, useless idiot..."

Porco bites down on his lip to the point of drawing blood: now he opens his only functioning eye, and he realizes, somehow, that the right side of his forehead is completely missing. Hair falls down on his face, on his nose, blood glueing it to his skin. This doesn't look good, he has to do something before he can rest it out, _come on come on come on-_

A crackle, a jolt, electricity shooting through his whole body- a bonfire, his eyes full of tears, it's cold, he's shivering, afraid, alone, small. A little boy. A child.

The inside of his mouth feels different, his tongue's shorter now, maybe, he can't really tell, but it's weird. His nostrils burn when he breathes in, maybe he's coming down with a cold, maybe he's about to cry- no, no, what is happening? Cold, cold, cold.

He's got both eyes- the crackle of the fire, someone shifting on the grass, short, damp, dawn almost breaking, cold, cold, cold air cutting through his skin, down his exposed neck, the back of his head.

Porco's head shifts up- Reiner looks into his eyes, and Marcel looks back into his.

"Reiner... I'm sorry," he sobs, his voice guttural, hoarse, a boy who will never grow into a man, and Reiner, staring, his eyes glowing, fire coated in gold, features blooming slowly on his face with the passing of time.

Tears bubbling up in his throat, threatening to suffocate him- _I can't sleep at night, I feel like someone's getting ready to choke me as soon as I let my guard down_ \- "you were never supposed to be chosen as a warrior,"

(Porco breathes)

"but I- I changed their mind, talked you up to the army,"

(he shivers)

"I praised you while bringing down my brother's achievements,"

(Porco exhales,) Marcel does the same,

"Eh?"- an interruption, Reiner's little question, making room for Marcel to breathe, (a tiny black dot in the white noise that fills what's left of Porco's head),

"... I just wanted to protect him."

It's loud, fast, it pumps blood, its beat shaking his whole body, he can feel it behind his ear.

 _I just wanted to protect him,_ the words float in his mind, in the blank space left by this memory. It leaves a mark on his tongue, like he spoke those words himself, the taste of pear skin and a lukewarm glass of water and the cold morning air he used to breathe in on their walk to the academy.

The earth shakes, the Beast Titan standing back up, its loud, booming voice calling for the enemy- "I will summon the Titans," more blood trickling down the corner of Porco's mouth; he can't brace himself, his head spinning, steam fizzling out, but someone starts shouting, amid the gunshots, the screaming, the pounding of Porco's heartbeat.

"Wait!"

It's- Colt? Porco isn't sure. His ear might be fucked up as well... it's getting darker inside the Jaw. The walls aren't red anymore, more like purple.

"Falco...! He drank some of your spinal fluid- please, please don't scream!"

"Shit," coughs Porco, hacking, wheezing- it's bitter, so very bitter, different. He's struggling to keep his eye open, now.

"You know about us," keeps shouting Colt, yeah, it's definitely him, "I'm inheriting the Beast so that they won't send my family to Paradis! I- I never knew what you were thinking, even back then-"

It's so loud, so, so loud.

"-but the Zeke I knew would never get kids involved into this! Please- I won't ask you to just take his lying down, but... wait until Falco is outside the range of your scream!"

More gunshots, now, Porco's eyelids are glued to each other- when he manages to open his eye again, Colt is still shouting, "-kill as many as you'd like, but please don't drag my little brother into this!"

"Colt," interrupts the Beast- Zeke, from inside his Titan, he speaks up, his voice all distorted but clear enough for Porco to make out the words, "you care for your little brother... I feel the same."

_I just wanted to protect him._

"...I'm so sorry."

A shout- explosions, everywhere, like bombshells, like being in the trenches when you're fourteen years old, rifle in hand, dirt in your eyes, Porco groans, his neck giving out, head falling forward, Titan flesh clinging to his face. It's like an earthquake, like the world is ending, and he can't get up, he can't heal, he can't do anything.

"Marcel," he sobs, arms hanging down, like the broken hands of a clock, "Marcel," he repeats, the words dragging on his tongue, rolling out all disjointed, his brother's name bathed in blood.

He's not going to answer.

More footsteps, Porco's eye cracking open, he cranes his head so he can see- the Jaw's remaining eye twitches, but he can make out the Armored fighting off another Titan.

"Oh," murmurs Porco. That's Falco.

The Jaw is clinging to him, its flesh refusing to let him go, as if it were afraid. "No," he murmurs, fighting against it, the insides of its Titan an unpleasant, ashy purple that reeks of death. "Let me go," he blurts out, blood splashing on the back of his tongue. "It's not my Titan..."

It should have never been. He should have inherited the Armored- no, no. It's all wrong. He should have never joined the program in the first place, then the memory comes back again, Reiner's face, his eyes dull with dark shadows as Marcel confesses what he did, his small, incredulous _eh?_ that only made Marcel shake harder-

Porco wills away Marcel's memory, he grits his teeth, he digs, and digs, tries to find one of his own, and it's apples and statues and ties and rain and the glint of amber under the sun, it's Reiner's voice, and he gasps, broken, steam fizzling out yet again, engulfing his head in a thick, strong cloud that shields him from the Jaw, that protects him.

He remembers when he nuzzled up against his cheek, that evening, their kisses, the way he let him cry in his arms- he remembers everything, even the smallest things from years and years before, his round cheeks, the shrilly voice, his good marks, his top knit sweater on that day when he cried all over his five pages of idiotic propaganda, it was a Tuesday, he remembers, almost spring, and he got better marks than him.

Porco remembers, not Marcel, not Ymir, he's doing all this on his own. He tears the Titan flesh away from his face with his bare hands, blood spurting out of them, he throws them away, and the Jaw's nape cracks open, a rattling sound that makes Porco's bottom lip quiver, a farewell.

It was a muffler, he's pretty sure- yeah, Reiner pointed that out to Udo, told him it was nice, a dark red that Porco happened to like, too. It was Mother's Day. He should've gotten one as well... maybe he already thought about all this, once.

His head has healed enough to gain some sense of balance as Porco clambers out of the Jaw Titan: he holds onto its torn flesh, feeling sick after losing so much blood, but now he can see what's happening right in front of him.

The Armored Titan is kneeling down, blood trickling down its nape, Falco's mindless Titan munching on it.

Porco hoists himself up, then falls right down the side of the Jaw's neck: he splashes down in its blood, the Garrison coat all drenched in it as it drags down his shoulder, causing him to fight to gain back his balance. He stands up on shaky, weak legs, and stares, he just stares as the hardened skin falls apart, blown to dust, Falco's Titan digging its way through the Armored's nape.

A flash, his knees trembling, Reiner's thick eyelashes as he kisses him back, murmurs his name against his lips, his voice, his presence, they're all echoes, bouncing off him and making him feel alive for the better and for the worse.

He remembers everything about them, from the apple he was given to the last kiss they shared that night.

It's enough.

Everything stops, as if the whole world suddenly froze in place, and Porco is the only one who breathes, thinks, moves. He walks slowly, a slight limp that makes him drag his boots as he proceeds, head tilting heavily to one side, steam coming out of it despite everything, his flesh refusing to heal. He's done for- it's like a walk to the gallows at this point.

He holds his head high: Marcel would be proud.

"I've got no power left to heal," he croaks, his voice sounding so weird, out of tune, somehow, "but- I'm not fucking dying without a fight."

The Armored's neck moves, its massive head shifting up- he should have told him everything when he had the chance. Now it's too late.

Porco's gaze falls to the ground as he limps even more, blood sloshing at the back of his throat, but he forces it down- "I saw my brother's memories," he says, even louder, as loud as his body will allow him to, "he tricked the military into making you, _dead last _-" oh, he loves him, "a warrior... all to protect me."__

__All the times Marcel told him to just get along with Reiner, to behave, to stop attacking him at every occasion- the sad, grownup look he always got in his eyes, how he wouldn't laugh at his jokes anymore, how he'd grown distant over time but still close, as much as he could... now it all makes sense. Now he understands._ _

__"I know for sure, now," he scoffs, almost- Porco looks up, a tired, yet genuine smile trying to pull at his lips with whatever strength he's got left. "After all, I was better than you."_ _

__Falco's mindless Titan bends its legs, then sprints, ground breaking as it inches closer and closer, disjointed, drooling, its maw wide open and ready to tear Porco apart._ _

__He doesn't care, now: his lone eye is focused, his gaze all for Reiner's Armored Titan, the way it reaches forward with its left arm, teeth exposed, and oh- if it could talk. Maybe it's a blessing in disguise: Porco is afraid he could change his mind if he even got a glimpse of him, of the human inside the Titan, of the man he loves, the man who always protected him from the truth, for all these years._ _

__His smile grows as his heartbeat picks up: time to return the favour._ _

__Porco throws his arms wide, and he can hear, from somewhere deep in his heart, Reiner calling out to him across the sky._ _

  
  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
  


"I'm going," announces Reiner then, everyone immediately falling silent at his words: he stands up, wringing his hands together as he adds, his voice so low he's almost whispering, "I'm not feeling very well, so... maybe it's better if I go home."

Before Marcel can say anything, Annie, of all people, precedes him: "yeah, you do that. We don't want you puking all the way to the island."

It does feel out of place with the intensity of the moment and all, but Marcel is relieved to hear Reiner snort, a small grin blooming on his face- and he doesn't miss Porco's dumbfounded gaze, at that. "At least I'm not the one who gets sick on a train," shoots back Reiner, and Marcel hides his smirk as he crawls in front of Annie to break up their possible fight: Pieck helps as well, grabbing Annie by the hand and pulling her back down, laughing openly just like Marcel allows himself to do.

"You should walk him home," she quips then, voice unnecessarily loud, "it's not safe to wander on your own when you're an Eldian, right Pokko?"

Marcel should feel bad, maybe, but he can't help the genuine laughter that bursts out of him- and he's joined by everyone else, too, with the obvious exception of Porco. He's standing up, his face all distorted by a very childish grimace, and it almost distracts Marcel from noticing how Reiner definitely isn't laughing at the joke, either: on the contrary, his eyes are all wide, and he's stopped wringing his hands.

Oh. He's blushing.

"Alright," concedes Porco then, his shrill voice only adding to everyone's general entertainment, "but don't go off somewhere until I've come back."

"You are not coming back, like, at all," interjects Marcel then, unable to help the laughter still intertwined in his words, "you're going home and getting into bed at a reasonable hour."

The little rascal, he's got his trademark younger-brother-pout on as he parrots his tone, dismissing Marcel with a "yes, Mum," raising a hand to the others and flipping his brother off. Normally, he'd call him out on it- but he's more taken by Reiner's reaction, how he's staring at Porco, how hard he's blushing. His eyes are all wide, too, it looks like they're going to roll out of his skull any moment now, like he doesn't want to miss even a single blink of Porco's eyes.

They walk away together in silence then, side by side, same height, same age, yet they couldn't be more different if they tried. Marcel stares at them until they disappear around the corner, wondering if it'll be enough.

For what it's worth, he hopes Reiner will find it in him to forgive him, at some point.

He just wanted to protect his little brother.


End file.
